Glory Boys
by Panopticon
Summary: When the world of Knossos secedes from the Imperium, the men of the 33rd Elysian Stormtrooper Regiment are the first to deliver the Emperor's wrath.
1. Prologue

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++03.04 Hrs. {Sys. Local – Knossos.}

Tempestus Seg. #1669/H

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23.12Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

Observator Facility Primus. Vidal Mountain Range Outpost.

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Flashes of las-fire illuminated the stormy highland night, merging with the howling wind and the punishing sheets of rain into an awful cacophony. A staggered line of beige-suited guardsmen advanced through mud slick ground and half-submerged fence, littered with the shredded remains of the last wave. They pressed ever-onward into the courtyard of Observator Facility Primus, a site of defiant loyalist resistance and among the last lines of communication with the Imperium at large.

After the sharp _thwack_ of las-rounds hitting the brick façade, an angry hiss issued from the vaporizing rain water. The guardsmen were many, but had a marked lack of fire discipline. Shots went wild, frequently missing their mark; the urge to slaughter their foe overrode any shred of military bearing they still possessed. Dirt-smeared squad leaders waved their shabby subordinates forward, ignoring the odd burst of gunfire from within the crescent shaped arrangement of the facility's brick buildings. The fanatical guardsmen pushed forward past the smoldering remains of a chimera, its crew still piling out the rear hatch; their blazing bodies set about flailing across the sucking mud, sinking in as they writhed out their smoke-shrouded death throes.

From a low window of an ancillary structure, a pair of heavy stub guns announced themselves with a shuddering roar and strobe light muzzle flashes. As the gunners found their aim, the massive rounds punched head-sized divots in the muddy ground before gouging a bloody hole into the enemy flank. Limbs exploded into puffs of pink mist and spinning bone fragments, the screams of the mangled traitors drowned out by the fury of the defenders' guns. Invisible against the night sky, a pair of defenders hurled two anti-personnel charges from the roof of the central building. One landed amongst a squad of beige men, slicing their lightly armored bodies apart in a whickering hail of shrapnel. The other went wide of the mark, detonating against the Chimera and carving cruel gashes into its armored bulk.

As the last hunks of shredded gore slapped to the earth, the sounds of battle bled away in an instant. The report of explosions and stubber shots were swallowed up by the night, and the ferocity of the storm reasserted itself. Inside the facility proper, the defenders waited in uneasy silence. Crouched in a third floor office of Observator Facility Primus, members of the Knossos PDF peered over their open window, laden with sandbags to protect from stray las-fire.

"What's happening out there, Father?" A hushed whisper came from Private Lexio, who sat in the darkest corner of the room, clutching at a ragged las-wound on his arm. Eyes glued to his macro-binoculars, Father Patraeus, a preacher of the Imperial Ministorum, whispered through the blackness.

"It is impossible to tell, child," He replied, holding up a hand to silence further inquiry. He ignored the frantic whispers of the troopers behind him, instead listening to the streams of rainwater spattering on the frayed burlap of the sandbags.

He squinted through the lenses, the basic equipment scarcely able to pierce the rain and darkness outside. He scanned the courtyard, vague lumps hinting at the bodies of friend and foe alike. The beige uniforms of the enemy were only slightly easier to make out in the darkness; the charcoal-colored uniforms of the PDF were all-but invisible in this light. Nothing moved in the kill zone.

Months had passed since the first news of the rebellion reached the Observator facility. After a rush of assassinations and bloody coups swept the globe, several Imperial Guard armored regiments - the chief military export on Knossos – aligned with secessionist factions and began capturing orbital defenses, commandeering centers of industry, and killing everything in their path. Father Patraeus and the other staff had watched from the rooftops of the isolated facility as artillery rained down on the nearby cities, painting the night in hellish orange strokes, and smearing the daylight with vast plumes of smoke.

His reverie was short-lived. He winced as a pair of floodlights snapped on at the perimeter fence, bathing the yard in a sickly yellow glow. The floodlights belonged to a pair of Leman Russ battletanks, parked just inside the gates. He averted his gaze, blinking away the spots in his vision and willing his night eyes to return to him. The rustling of feet distracted him momentarily; Private Lexio had managed to crawl across the paper-strewn floor, and was craning his neck over the window sill to get a better look.

From between the tanks, a small row of PDF shuffled into the yard, flanked by a pair of beige-uniformed guardsmen. The guardsmen shoved and kicked their captives as they marched forward, folding-stock lasguns trained on the prisoners. Their heads were low and their hands bound; this must be the scouting party that left the following morning to repair the surveillance equipment. The PDF lined up in front of the tanks, floodlights silhouetting their battered forms.

"What's happening?"

"Silence," He hissed, waving furiously behind him. He mashed his thumb against the zoom on the side of the binoculars, despite knowing full well that they couldn't magnify any further. A third beige man stepped out from behind the captives, gesturing wildly and shouting something indistinct.

"Emperor's Blood," The preacher cursed softly. He sensed, rather than saw, the heads his fellow defenders swivel in his direction, taken aback by the pious man's choice of words. He looked on as the third beige man produced a serrated combat knife and waved it aloft. He strutted up to the first man in line and delivered a swift kick to the back of his knees, forcing him to the ground. With no semblance of ceremony, he grabbed the chin of the poor soul from behind and opened a bloody gash across his neck. Father Patraeus could swear he heard the gurgling wheeze, even over the stormy weather.

The beige man sawed through the rain-slick flesh of the PDF trooper's neck with savage glee, pulling his chin back to open the wound wider. After several moments of this savagery, the killer rammed his victim's face into the mud, vital fluids still gushing from the hole in his neck. The bloodthirsty howl of several dozen men rose up from the tree line beyond the facility, echoing eerily off the walls of the Observator facility.

"They're going to pay for this," Lexio hissed in the darkness. While Father Patraeus had been watching the scene unfold, the Private had found his own pair of binoculars, and was peering down at the gruesome execution alongside the preacher. After the last trooper lay twitching in the mud, gushing away the last of their blood, the beige man let out a whooping cheer before racing back between the tanks with his comrades in tow.

"Warp take you, traitorous swine!" Lexio shrieked through the window, shattering the awful silence. With his functioning arm, he hoisted his lasgun up onto the sill and began to spray las-fire down through the courtyard. Other defenders, clearly watching the same spectacle, followed suit; the angry red glow of las-fire mixed in with the blinding glare of the flood lights. The flurry of muzzle cracks was deafening the preacher, but before he could reprimand the young Private, he saw the tide of infantry pouring through the gaps blown in the perimeter fence.

"That's right! Come and meet th-" Lexio began, but was silenced when the guardsmen opened fire. A stray las-bolt leapt up from the courtyard, obliterating his skull in a fountain of sizzling gore. The other occupants of the room yelped in shock, leaping away from the headless Private as his body slumped against the window sill. They wiped madly at their faces with their hands and their sleeves, in a desperate attempt to be rid of the blood and brain tissue.

The characteristic thump of a breaching charge shook the floor beneath them. Muffled shouts and gunfire could be heard downstairs – the enemy had made it through the front doors. Father Patraeus plucked his shotgun from its resting place against the wall, racked the slide, and rose to his feet. The other PDF troops followed wordlessly as he left the office.

He grasped the emblem of the Aquila that hung from his neck, whispering a grim prayer to his god, the Emperor of Man.

He prayed that help would arrive soon.


	2. In Transit

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++03.04 hrs. {Sys. Local – Knossos}

Tempestus Seg. #1669/H

[[Justicar. Crew Deck 34. Rm 06288]]

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Sergeant Girard Burkhalter's door eased open on pneumatic joints, issuing a muted hiss. A long, blue octagon of light spilled in through the opening and into his crew compartment. The harsh glow-strip lighting invaded the small space, falling across Corporals Stern and Postigo, still asleep inside. Groans of disapproval filled the room as Girard stepped over the threshold and into the causeway beyond. He chuckled to himself, waving a dismissive hand behind him.

"Ah, quit your belly-achin'. I'm going for a walk. Have the squad ready to go by 07.30 outside the briefing chamber." He called over his shoulder. As soon as the orders left his lips, the slumbering men chorused:

"Aye, Sergeant." With a distinctive, sleep-slurred tone.

Girard pushed his compartment hatch shut again, after hearing the soft beeping of alarms resetting on his men's dataslates. He made his way down the cramped causeway, still blinking away the mist of restless sleep as he walked. His polished boots clacked out a steady, echoing rhythm across the gunmetal decking; the squad leader and member of the 33rd Elysian Stormtrooper Regiment fought to maintain a rigid, dignified posture, in spite of his restlessness. The labyrinthine corridors of the _Justicar_, an Emperor-Class battleship, were all but deserted this early in its day/night cycle. Elsewhere on the vessel, the buzz of activity resumed; duty shift changeovers were among the only disruptions to the slumbering crew. The enveloping silence was so complete that Girard had the impression that he was the only man aboard.

These solitary strolls through the vessel were a common practice for Girard. Normal ratings were not allowed free reign on an Imperial ship of course, and certainly not on a newly commissioned vessel like this one. Then again, he was far from simple navy scum. Special Operations units generally enjoyed a far greater degree of freedom, when compared with the rest of the Imperial Guard. The men and women able to survive such harsh conditioning, training, and advance to the coveted rank of Sergeant, in Girard's case, were omitted from the often senseless regulations rampant in the Imperial war machine.

He began to see an increase of scheduled activity as he left the crew decks behind, meandering past maintenance shops, flaring with showers of sparks and filled with mechanical whining. Also active were assorted tech labs, manned by scurrying servitors and tech-priests, and full of their jealously guarded equipment. It was at the view ports, however, that he got his first real view of the conflict they would be serving in next.

Outside of the incalculable mass of the Justicar, the flagship of Battlegroup Lambda, cruisers and escort vessels prowled the void around the world of Knossos. Distant flickers of light hinted at small skirmishes being fought far outside the established perimeter, mopping up the last of the enemy's naval forces. Vast swathes of debris hung in space, drifting through the light of Knossos' nearest star. Mixed in with the wreckage of rebel vessels and orbital defense platforms were countless bodies, grasping limbs stretched wide in their last moments of life.

With the majority of the combat actions long past, there was little danger in keeping viewports open. The final security stand-downs were nearly two standard days ago now, and there was little to fear in the way of naval retaliation. Battlegroup Lambda had smashed through Knossos' defenses with ease; whatever was happening on the planet below, the defenders certainly did not have their eyes on the skies. They were clearly not suspecting such swift reprisal, either. The planet's surface, like all but the most severely war torn worlds, was deceptively peaceful from this distance. But who knew what cruelty and horror was being committed this very moment, all those miles away?

Girard turned from the viewing galleries, heading down a narrow causeway. He resumed his ambling course through the crew decks; it was cold in the ship, but he rather liked it that way. His skin prickled as he passed beneath an air duct, the grilled fixture supplying cold air from the generarium complex through miles of snaking pipes and ductwork. Girard slowed his pace under the pleasant blast of air, enjoying it for an extra moment. Presently, he passed a long arrangement of gleaming, metallic control panels set into the bulkhead beside him. The flat expanses of metal offered a brief reflection:

A tall and fair-skinned man, built of lean and powerful muscle returned the stare. A head of close-cropped, blonde hair topped his head, in which was set an uncharacteristically kind face. With a friendly smile, strong jaw-line, and fathomless green eyes, he did not fit the mold of his more stoic peers. He was, in his defense, a rather young man. At scarcely 26 Terran years of age, he still had yet to acquire the grizzled countenance so common among veteran Stormtroopers, the busiest special operators in the Imperial Guard.

He was pulled from his thoughts, and his fleeting vanity as the reflective surface came to an end. He scaled a nearby ladder well, going up several decks and emerging beside a series of freight lifts. There were small gaggles of navy personnel moving through the larger, vaulted space here, ducking between equipment trollies and scurrying at varying paces. Girard set off in a random direction, blazing a path towards a promising intersection at the far end of the area.

With a rush of air and mechanical grinding, one lift stopped with a cheerful chime. As the safety mesh ratcheted up, a pair of female Navy officers stepped out onto the freshly mopped deck. Their royal blue uniforms, pressed and pleated to perfection, seemed to hold their wearers up in their stiff and aristocratic posture. They moved in perfect step as they crossed in front of Girard, duffel bags in one manicured hand, and steaming cups of recaf in the other – no doubt returning from the cavernous gymnasium complex, dozens of decks below their feet. As they neared, two parallel silver bars on their lapels gleamed in the sleepy blue tint of the glowstrips overhead. Two young lieutenants: even between the two of them, he still probably had more time in service; the thought amused him.

"Good morning, Ladies," Girard nodded the proper greeting, in accordance with the customs and courtesies so strictly enforced in the Imperial Navy. The one nearest to him turned and addressed him mid-stride:

"Good morning, Sergeant Burkhalter." She said, her voice rolling out in a low, sonorous tone. She paused, narrowing her eyes momentarily, which then opened wider than before. The irises, a striking icy blue, dilated briefly in an eerie imitation of an archaic camera shutter as they tracked Girard's movements. Not only was her vision augmetic, but the intelligence network interfaces and crew monitoring software supplementing her organic brain became evident when she spoke again:

"Another late night stroll? I hope you'll be alert for your briefing this morning," She raised an eyebrow. The speed at which she was able to pull his unit's schedule and even his sleeping habits was impressive to the unmodified mind. However, such augmetic enhancements were relatively common among higher echelons of the Imperial military, and such feats of information recall were more like clever parlor tricks to frighten low-ranking sailors and workers into obedience. Girard responded without missing a beat.

"Good point, ma'am; I might need to get myself a mug as well," He gestured to her steaming mug or recaf, "Every briefing we've gotten on this voyage has been well over two hours. I just hope we don't get some pimple-faced Ensign stuttering their way through a presentation," He fired back with a toothy grin. The silent officer, a mousy-looking sort, seemed shocked at the remark. The other, unfazed, took a sip of her beverage:

"I should hope not. Good day, Sergeant." She said dryly. The pair resumed their journey, no doubt to some cushioned, climate-controlled office where some lowly ground-pounder like Girard would never set foot. He smiled to himself and continued his walk.

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++07.53 Hrs.

[[Justicar. Admin. Deck 63. Ready Rm. 0J-37412.]]

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"And so I said: I just hope we don't get some pimple-faced Ensign stuttering their way through a presentation!" Girard finished his story. His men, the rest of Delta Squad, all burst into a round of laughter, drawing the gaze of nearby adepts and technicians in the causeway. Lance Corporal Johannsen, a gangly and hawk-nosed fellow, tapped on a nearby viewport. A cluster of wreckage and frozen corpses was drifting by.

"Y'see those poor shits? Maybe they're not our enemy – maybe they just jumped out an airlock 'cause they didn't wanna sit through another snore-fest briefing on this tight-assed ship, hey?" He asked, laughing at his own joke. Wulfhausen, a hulking brute of a man, aimed a slap at the back of his head:

"I'm gonna throw _you_ out an airlock, Stretch," he grumbled. Johannsen dodged the slap with surprising speed, and locked into a standing grapple with his compatriot. Childish grins split their features as they shuffled to and fro, trying to break one another's grip on their lapels. Postigo watched their antics for a moment, before turning to Girard, and then the view port:

"And speaking of which, maybe this brief will get us word on just what the hell we're up against. All the floaters so far have been too ripped up to see a proper uniform." He mused. Girard nodded as he yawned, scratching at an out-of-reach itch between his shoulderblades.

"That would be nice, but I'd wager that Seg Com thinks that would spoil the surprise. Anyhow, I suppose I've got to get accountability of you goons," He murmured, pulling his dataslate out of a cargo pocket.

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...initializing roster. exe. standby.

[…]

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…/ Cpl. Postigo, Abele

+Present.

…/Cpl. Stern, Solomon.

+Present.

…/Lcpl Johannsen, Vennor.

+Present

.../Lcpl. Stark, Piter.

+Present.

…/Lcpl Streeter, Declan

+Present.

…/ Lcpl. Veidt, Cristopf

+Present.

…/Lcpl. Wulfhausen, Gehrolt

+Present.

[…]

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]]All Personnel Present and Accounted For[[

*Thought for the Day*

"Pain is an illusion of the senses/ Despair is an illusion of the mind."

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"Good, everyone's not only alive and in one piece, but on time, too. Outstanding," Girard nodded with approval, and stowed the dataslate as the men around him chuckled. More men from their detachment were beginning to pile up outside the ready room, waiting for the security seals to auto-release at 08.00 and allow them entry. When they finally released with an audible _ka-chunk_, the gathered Stormtroopers issued low murmurs of impatience, and began to file inside. Girard and his men took a seat near the front of the cavernous amphitheater, while the rest of their detachment filled in the rows at random. Three full platoons would enter before all of Primaris Detachment was in full attendance. As they waited for their briefing, idle conversation and bouts of laughter filled the dim space.

Stormtrooper regiments were a unique branch of the Imperial Guard. Because of the specialized nature and high demand of their tasking; an entire regiment was rarely dedicated to a single campaign. Instead, the regiments were split up into smaller detachments, usually around company or even platoon strength, and dispersed throughout the Imperium's myriad conflict zones.

Along with the usual banter, there were shifting backsides and mutterings of discomfort floating about. The design of the ready room's furniture was far from conducive to the average Imperial Stormtrooper. The chairs were designed for smaller, lighter navy personnel, not men whose physiques bulged with battle-hardened muscle. With a soft hiss, the doors to the ready room slid open. A pair of naval officers, a man and a woman, entered the room, flanking the commander of the Elysian Primaris Detachment: Colonel Hieronymus Pierce.

He was an imposing figure, which was to be expected from someone with as many years of professional death-dealing on record as he. Always in a starched and pressed uniform when not in parade dress or carapace armor, he carried himself with the posture and composure of a Ministorum statue. His right eye, blown out in one of his innumerable combat actions, was replaced with a glaring, red optic. Of course, the rest of his organic features were arguably harder looking than the metal prosthetic. A gleaming metal arm replaced his natural one below the elbow. The prosthetics were taken as a sign of respect, almost as much a badge of office as the gleaming collar devices on his uniform.

"Attention on deck!" One Stormtrooper shouted upon seeing their fearless leader, and at once every man in the room flew to his feet, snapping to attention.

"As ease, gents." The Colonel barked, waving as he made his way down the stairs toward the podium at the front of the room. Girard didn't recognize the man accompanying him, but the woman with the icy blue eyes he immediately remembered from his encounter earlier that morning.

"Oh, damn it all – that's the Lieutenant I was talking about before," He muttered, resting his head on his hand. Beside him, his men glanced quickly around, and then snapped back to the front of the room, holding in their laughter. Corporal Stern, immediately to his right, whispered:

"Careful there, Sergeant – she's probably got you tagged and marked already. Wanna change seats while we have the chance?" He snickered. Deciding to not encourage any further ribbing, Girard just shook his head at the impossible odds. The room fell silent as Pierce spoke:

"I'd say you all are feeling a bit like fungus, eh? Kept in the dark and fed loads of shit?" He cracked a twisted grin. A ripple of laughter spread through the room, which he let carry on for a reasonable moment or two. The analogy was more true than many liked to admit. Due to the sensitive nature of their assignments, many Stormtrooper units were only dimly aware of their coming missions until days, if not hours before they were set to begin. After the momentary humor, Pierce's face immediately reverted to its stony default.

"Well, that changes now. Lieutenant, if you please…" He gestured idly to the woman beside him, who retrieved a slim dataslate from inside her service coat and laid it on the podium. The room was quiet now, and the whirr of the processor activating heralded a flickering of images, suspended in the air above the podium.

"This is our updated brief regarding our assignment on Knossos. The overall classification of this brief is Top Secret, Sensiti- Ah, hell with it, you lot have the fraggin' clearance anyway," He grumbled, waving his augmetic limb at the assembled troops, who all collectively chuckled at the Colonel's informal ways.

"At any rate, this comes straight from The Boss, so listen well." He was referring, of course, to Lord Commissar Kryptmann, the man who wielded absolute control over the three regiments of Imperial Guard aboard this vessel. The Colonel placed a metallic hand on the edge of the podium, his gaze hovering across his men.

"This is a full scale, no-shit rebellion, planet wide, condition Alpha +. Though, after that beating their space defenses took from His mighty Navy, it's been downgraded to a respectable Alpha. But things still aren't going well for our boys on the surface. Since our transition out of warp space, three localized armored divisions recently joined with the 512th Mechanized Infantry regiment, along with three additional infantry divisions. Twelve standard weeks ago, they began seizing strategic population centers and logistics sites."

The Colonel paused as the dataslate booted up, and the cartography applications activated. A massive, grid-lined likeness of Knossos leapt into the air. Tactical readouts danced around the hologram, and vid feeds orbited the main image, depicting fierce fighting and brutal atrocities. The Colonel nodded, and continued his briefing.

"Loyalist forces have sustained such heavy casualties as to render them non-mission capable, and have been repelled to isolated sites around the globe. All attempts at communication with them or the PDF have been met with failure." As he spoke, sweeping lines and dots indicating friend and foe winked into existence across the globe. A familiar sense of unease crept into Girard as he noted just how many more red dots filled the virtual globe and green ones.

"This is where we come in. The 33rd is here to begin retaking key strategic sites that will disrupt enemy communication, supply, and the remaining orbital defense assets. This will allow the remaining loyalist Guardsmen and PDF forces to rally; from here our forces will bolster the rallied troops, with elements of the 72nd Reyado Armor, 88th Valparaiso Infantry, and those goons from the 122nd Air Wing." He paused for effect, letting a ripple of laughter run through the room. The 122nd had a reputation for disproportionately high disciplinary actions from excessive drinking, insubordination, and terrorizing local citizens wherever they travelled.

"As a united front, they will eliminate these filthy little heathens and bring Knossos back to the Emperor's flock. Now, Delta Squad will begin with an orbital drop _here,_" He made a swift motion in the air with his living hand, followed with a short jab. The globe magnified over a small area and a flurry of red squared appeared over the zoom box, centered on a mass of blotchy brown and green.

The Colonel went on to detail a search and rescue mission, centered on an isolated Observator complex, high in a mountain on Knossos' central continent. A sizable enemy force of infantry with light armored support was close to overrunning the complex. The surviving loyalist personnel were making it exceedingly difficult, but would be unable to hold out for more than another couple days. Securing the complex, he explained, would reopen lines of communication and make everyone's job that much easier.

The 33rd had their work cut out for them. The remaining squads would deploy shortly after and begin neutralizing the planet-side orbital defense facilities, thus allowing the 72nd, 88th, and 122nd to deploy with relative impunity. The safety of the 72nd Armor division during its trip planet-side was paramount: The other Imperial Guard commanders had recently been 'read-in' on news that the local Adeptus Mechanicus diocese was augmenting their armored units with Super Heavy "Titan-Killer" tanks, which were currently secreted away on some off-limits deck within the _Justicar_. Losing such incredible firepower to anti-aircraft fire was simply unacceptable.

It was the anti-aircraft batteries in particular that set Girard's nerves on edge. Plummeting feet-first into the teeth of the enemy's guns, while an undoubtedly manly venture, was better suited to an Astartes strike team. Elysian Stormtroopers were more akin to a scalpel, small and deadly in their precision. He and his men were now relying on their fellow Stormtroopers to get the defenses down fast. There was little doubt that they would do just that. After briefing the rest of Primaris Detachment on their various assignments, the Colonel tapped a key on the dataslate, minimizing the display and returning the room to its dim conditions. Although it seemed a physical impossibility, the man's face took on an even more grim expression.

"I needn't remind you all to be vigilant in the execution of your duties. The reason for the rebellion on Knossos is unclear; at this stage, we must expect all possibilities. All rebel guardsmen and their constituent war machines are to be considered hostile, and destroyed on sight. No exceptions. The Emperor demands loyalty from his children, and the people of Knossos have been found wanting. Justice shall be swift." The Colonel narrowed his eye, and his optic appeared to flare brighter in the poor lighting.

"Dismissed."


	3. Suiting Up

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++04.10 Hrs.

[[Justicar. Operational Readiness Sector. Special Operations Staging Area 41.216]]

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Clattering gear, the racking of weaponry, the familiar tang of gun oil, all mixed in with excited conversation as Delta Squad prepared for war. Most of the squad was still adjusting their carapace armor, one of many distinguishing pieces in a Stormtrooper's arsenal. The quicker men were already moving on to inspecting, and repeatedly re-inspecting their unique firearms – the Hotshot lasguns.

The Hotshot was a far more advanced version of the standard rifle used by the inexhaustible armies of the Imperial Guard. It was heavily reinforced, with sophisticated cooling mechanisms along its barrel and upper receiver. All this modification was necessary due to the sheer amount of energy dispensed from the weapon itself, made possible by the super-charged power packs essential to its function. The result was a shorter ranged, wickedly powerful beam, able to slice through ceramite and most basic power armor, as well as lightly armored vehicles. In the close quarters and the ship-to-ship boarding actions the Stormtroopers frequently engaged in, they couldn't ask for a more suitable rifle.

Girard took stock of his squad's progress, after suiting up himself. As he scanned the room, a hunched, struggling figure caught his eye, its face hidden behind its gasmask. Its gloved hands fumbled with the buckles on its trousers, which would have sagged to its knees, if not for the sidearm holster strapped to its thigh. Even without seeing the figure's face, Girard had an idea of who this struggling Stormtrooper was.

"Somebody help Streeter before he hurts himself," Girard called across the staging room. As he cinched his own pressure helmet onto his suit's gorget, he smiled to himself.

"Sorry, Sergeant. Just not used to, all these, _fraggin' straps_," He grunted, voice muffled inside his helmet. Streeter's status as a newcomer was a source of good-natured teasing by the other men, and his difficulty in staging his own body armor only fuelled their harassment.

"Still think you're using those trainer vests, eh Whiteshield?" said one Lance Corporal Veidt, followed by a round of astonished laughter from the more seasoned veterans.

"Those're fightin' words right there, Veidt," Johannsen laughed, still busy blousing up his boots. For any full-fledged Guardsman to suggest to another that they still maintained the frightful, brain-washed demeanor of a recruit, or "Whiteshield" in the Cadian vernacular was a cutting, but absurd insult at best.

"You're a fraggin' nuisance, Veidt, you know that?" Streeter grumbled into his helmet. Veidt simply chuckled, gesturing to Johannsen to observe the butt of his jokes. Streeter finally cinched his modular armor plates into place, and with his hands free, opened his gasmask to continue his prep-work without the visor obscuring his face.

"Looks like he's got it together now," Johannsen nodded appreciatively, and continued about his own business. Mildly irritated by losing a potential accomplice, Veidt blew a piece of errant dust from his disassembled rifle before snapping it back together; he then pointed to the muzzle, looking back to Streeter:

"And if you forgot, this loud end? You point it at the enemy, remember?" He said slowly and deliberately, as though explaining the concept to a small child. Those men that were paying attention to this little exchange laughed; Streeter merely shook his head, grumbling under his breath. Best to just ride out Veidt's little rants, rather than stoke the fire by responding to him.

Streeter was a recent graduate of the Elysian campus of the Schola Progenium, and despite surviving the brutal training regimens practiced by the Stormtrooper academy, he was still a bit wet behind the ears. Having a smaller, narrow-shouldered build and boyish facial features didn't help his case, either. From a leader's perspective, Girard decided it typical infantry hazing, more a rite of passage rather than any dislike for the young man. At least they were content to keep it on a verbal level; the first unit Girard was assigned to had a tradition of breaking into new joins' rooms, taping them between a pair of mattresses and launching them off the third floor of their barracks. Knee-slapping hilarious in retrospect, but at the time he would've gladly taken teasing over being a human mattress-rocket any day.

The 33rd's body armor was, of course, confusing for anyone not well versed in its use. Its lighter construction and integrated plating made for a maze of straps and buckles, but made it far easier to maneuver in, and just as protective as the normal carapace used throughout the Imperium. Elysia and its surrounding worlds were at the center of a major trading hub, and by virtue of the immense space traffic, were quite prosperous, not to mention full of diverse technology from far-reaching corners of the galaxy. This allowed the 33rd to provide some of the best armor money could buy, although such expenses were usually saved for special operations units like the Stormtrooper regiments.

Girard turned from the side-bar conversation, and back to his gear. Girard tested the pressure seals on his armor, pressing them together until they locked snugly. Visor still in an upright position, he glanced about the room; it appeared that his men had gotten suited up without any further difficulties. The bulky, armored forms of Delta Squad stood around the cramped space, engaging in idle chit-chat and awaiting orders. With all of his equipment stowed neatly on and around his person, Girard reached into his locker to retrieve his weapons.

From his personal weapon locker, Girard hauled out his gleaming, hot-off-the-forge bolter. It truly was a sight to behold: at nearly four feet in length, and weighing in at 22lbs unloaded, and fitted with an elongated barrel that gave it a kind of savage elegance, the Nostra Pattern Boltgun was a man's weapon. Instead of a laser beam, it fired a rocket propelled, mass reactive, fin stabilized round – more than capable of tearing a human-sized target in half.

Bolters had a fearsome reputation on the battlefields of the 41st Millenium. Every combatant learned to fear its sheer destructive power, whether wielded by a normal human soldier, or the super-human warriors of the Adeptus Astartes. Unlike his power-armored betters, and despite his powerful build, Girard needed a helping hand to control such a mighty weapon. A second grip at the fore of the weapon allowed for a steadier shot – a useful trait that Girard was thankful for, after many hours spent test-firing it on the range.

Next, he he plucked his black-enameled sidearm, still in its holster, from its place on a side coat hook. The Eclipse Custom stub pistol was a heavier caliber variant on the standard design. The gas-operated weapon fired a 10mm slug capable of punching a lightly armored target off its feet. Girard had always been more comfortable with the non-standard weapon, and actually preferred it to the Hotshot Laspistol, despite his weapon's lack of armor-piercing qualities. Had he been a simple rank-and-file Guardsman, such customization would never have been accepted. Stormtroopers were professional warriors and if an individual war fighter saw fit to use a non-standard weapon to bring death to his enemies, then there was no point in restricting him.

With a hollow click, door to the locker room cracked open. A Munitorum staffer poked his head into the room:

"Pods are prepped for launch – you ready to do this thing?" He called inside. Girard nodded, signaling his men to follow. At full battle readiness, Delta Squad hustled through the doors of the locker room and out towards a waiting crew elevator.

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++08.09 Hrs.

[[Justicar. Pod Gallery D6.]]

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Delta Squad stalked from the elevator, doors still sliding open as they made their way down the narrow catwalk overlooking the drop pod galleries. They walked in a loose formation, forcing the odd Navy rating aside as they passed – always an entertaining venture for the imposing warriors. The catwalks above and below stood away from the screened in decks to their left, where swarms of Munitorum workers on equipment trollies, and twitching servitors weaved through scrambling Navy personnel. Beneath their feet, along the other catwalks were the other squads of Stormtroopers, also readying themselves for planetfall.

Lined up along thousands of feet before them were the pod galleries, tracks oiled and ready to deliver the pods to the launch tubes. Last-minute functions checks were being attended to by clusters of tech priests, augmetic limbs swiveling and adjusting various dials as they ensured the pods would do their jobs properly. They tended to the machines like doting parents; more machine than man, they communed with the machine spirits of the pods, voices little more than soft clicks and hums.

From up ahead, one oil-stained Munitorum crew chief flagged down Delta Squad. He beckoned to them toward the pod beside him. Tendrils of incense drifted from servo-skulls buzzing around the tech-priests beside him, aiding in the ritualized procedure and filling the air with a sickly sweet aroma. Showers of sparks burst from the priests' tools and those of their servitor assistants, which occasionally bathed sections of the gallery in an actinic hue. The buzz of activity put the men of Delta Squad in a state of giddy excitement; Girard could scarcely keep his foot from tapping against the deck as he waited to climb aboard his pod.

Accenting his excitement, however, was a healthy dose of righteous anger. True, he had no personal investment in the conflict on the planet below, but he hadn't a need for it. Even in a society as cosmopolitan and daringly secular as Elysia's, and as a military man, Girard still believed the only way for the human race to survive this dark millennium was as a strong, unified force. Perhaps it was his proximity to galactic current events on Elysia talking, but it baffled him whenever a world like Knossos became so selfish as to secede from the Imperium of Man. Turning their backs on the Imperium was not only a grave blasphemy and a foolish separation from military support, but also a slap in the face to all the men and women who fought and died in their defense. People like Girard and his men, and all the honored dead.

The proper blessings were finally administered by the tech-priests, and Girard was plucked from his thoughts as the crew chief gave them the all-clear, gesturing to the pod nearest to him. Girard relaxed by degrees as he made his way to the pod. He dipped into a crouch, lowering himself into the womb-like enclosure. He struggled for a moment with the diagonal-facing pod, but soon pushed himself into a sitting position against the "ceiling." Restraints swept down from above, anchoring him into place as the rest of his squad slipped in one at a time. After Delta Squad was checked and cleared for drop, the crew chief dropped to one knee, peering inside the pod.

"Once this hatch seals, you'll be cleared for drop. Go show those heathens what-for." He spoke around a mouthful of chewing tobacco. The man paused for a moment, spat over the edge of the catwalk, and made the sign of the Aquila.

"The Emperor Protects." He intoned.

"The Emperor Protects!" Delta Squad raised their fists, roaring the affirmation in return before throwing down their visors. The pod door swung shut, bathing the interior in the lurid green glow of numerous display panels. Their helmet vox channel crackled to life. It was Veidt:

"Now's a bad time to mention I'm afraid of the dark, isn't it?" He whimpered with child-like naiveté. Behind the visor, his lower lip stuck out, quivering in mock fright. This time, it was Lance Corporal Piter Stark that chimed in:

"Ah, shut it, Veidt: We all know you just wanna cuddle with Sergeant Burkhalter," Stark shouted. Delta Squad shared a laugh over the vox.

The merriment was to be short-lived, however. A chime sounded somewhere in the pod, and the thrusters on the pod fired with a deafening shriek, sending Delta Squad rocketing into the void. Had the pod not been sealed against the vacuum, the cheers of the Stormtroopers could surely be heard echoing around the inside as they plummeted towards their objective. The Liberation of Knossos had begun.


	4. Insertion

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++08.36Hrs. {Sys. Local – Knossos.}  
Tempestus Seg. #1669/H.

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

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Mere seconds into their pod's launch, a sharp _whump_ shook the pod and its occupants, rattling their heads to and fro.

"Ha! Y'hear that? I think we just hit a man-sicle!" Johannsen cried, slapping his hand against the bulkhead and cackling at the morbid humor of it all. He was right: entering orbit directly following a Naval engagement was likely to result in collisions with the frozen bodies of their enemies.

"Yeah, either that or a blob of their terror-shits, after they saw the _Justicar _come rolling through and. You can sniff-test the pod when we're planet-side, how 'bout that?" Stark replied.

Warning claxons blared as the drop pod's retro thrusters engaged, slowing its meteoric descent to the planet below. A wave of turbulence rocked the pod as it entered through the top layers of Knossos' atmosphere. Girard adjusted his grip on the handles at his sides, often referred to by the squeamish as  
_Oh Shit_ Handles, grinning despite himself. Within moments, Delta Squad's drop pod would smash down into the pine forests of Knossos' verdant mountain ranges. Impact timers inside the pod raced down to zero, and in flickering view screens, their destination came roaring into view. Veidt's voice exploded across the vox, laced with static:

"Hey, wake me up when we get to the surface, won't you?" He called out, to no one in particular.

"Veidt, please be quiet." Girard said plainly. His tone cut off his subordinate's attempts at humor; menacing intent lurked just behind his words.

"Aye, Sergeant." He murmured, thoroughly cowed for the time being.

They hadn't long to wait. Shortly after the exchange of words, the pod hammered into the mountain with a world-splitting crunch. A roiling cloud of dirt, rocks and debris blossomed around the pod, obscuring it in a dusty haze. The heads of the pod's occupants slammed forward, flying back against the cushioned padding of their seats. The ear-splitting roar of their entry was replaced with the speckling clang of falling debris, and the muttered curses of the Stormtroopers.

The hatches jettisoned with percussive force, whipping tendrils of smoke and dust around the pod. Restraints released on their human cargo and weapon lockers snapped open. With practiced ease, the Stormtroopers dropped to the floor, collected their gear, and surged through the open hatches. Rays of late morning sunlight sliced through the forest canopy above them, speckling the forest floor with pools of golden light. Despite knowing the contrail from his fellow Stormtroopers' pods would be far too distant to see from his position, Girard still chanced a glance at the sky.

"Well, well for a world that's fallen to fragging sump-scum traitors, it doesn't exactly fit the usual profile, does it? Not a single mass grave, skull totem or defiled temple in sight" Stark murmured. He looked about, stepping clear of the pod and onto the hard-packed earth. Stern chuckled:

"Give it time, Stark. Don't let the pretty scenery fool you; we wouldn't be here unless we had a real cluster-frag on our hands," He too looked out over the mountaintop view, noting the deceptive peace from their vantage point. He was right, more so than he could know.

Once out of the pod, and clear of the post-drop jitters, Delta Squad was ready to move. Girard tightened the strap on his bolter, and with his free hand, gave the signal for his squad to form up. All side conversation ceased, and Delta Squad made their way up the craggy mountainside, watching for elevated defenders. Delta Squad left their pod behind, and struck off into the wilderness of Knossos.

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++09.25 Hrs.

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

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After several minutes of rock climbing and darting through lightly wooded slopes, Delta Squad came to a narrow, paved access road that led up the mountainside. Naturally, this is not the path that they would take to their destination. The road was crawling with foot patrols, lumbering Sentinel walkers, and a column of chimera transports was on its way to meet the defenders of the Observator complex. Despite their blazing entry through orbit, there hadn't been a single shot fired in their direction. They were off to a good start.

The view from the mountaintop was spectacular. Through gaps in the trees, one could see for miles in every direction. Dusty plains stretched out to the south, punctuated by the occasional mesa. Vast thunderheads loomed ominously in the distance, obscuring swathes of terrain in gloomy shadow. Great clouds of black smoke could be seen drifting with the wind, billowing up far-distant cities and towns in the wast, bringing the reality of the conflict into sharper focus.

The going was tough from the start. The mountainous terrain, while striking in its natural beauty, was far from accommodating to a mountain climber on a tight schedule. Delta Squad was forced to sling their weapons in order to devote themselves to the climb. Between their weapons, ammo packs and repair equipment necessary to keep their specialized weapons in working order, each member of Delta Squad was carrying over 60lbs of gear on top of their carapace armor. Their powerful physiques took it all in stride, however; even Girard, with his massive bolter in tow, leapt over crevasses and scaled walls of shale with feline grace.

During a brisk run through a level bit of meadow, a gloved fist went up at the front of the squad, signaling for a stop. It was Stark, gesturing toward a squat, concrete structure just over a hundred yards from their current position. Girard hustled forward, scanning up the incline at the area in question. Further inspection revealed a pair of enormous pipes protruding from the concrete and running into the ground beside it. More importantly, however, was what occupied the structure. A gaggle of guardsmen sat perched on the chipped and rusted railing. The traitors weren't minding their post; their weapons were at their feet, and they were too busy tossing pebbles down the mountain and bickering among themselves to notice the Stormtroopers creeping up through the trees. The icy-hot tingle of adrenaline flooded Girard's veins, his heart racing as he laid eyes on the scum.

"Open fire," Girard breathed into his mouthpiece. A flurry of cracks echoed off the rocky landscape behind him as Hotshot rounds tore into the oblivious guardsmen. The flimsy flak armor offered no protection whatsoever from the Stormtroopers' volley. These traitors didn't have a prayer.

The men on the railing could only recoil in shock as the lethal las-bolts sliced through the air towards them. They shuddered under the impact, bloody chunks torn from their bodies as they were sent tumbling into the grass below. The rest of the men scrambled to reach their weapons, but to no avail as more rounds perforated their lightly armored forms, slicing apart the railing and leaving behind superheated gouges in the metal. Without a sound, their twitching bodies dropped to the floor, ragged exit wounds smoking from cauterization.

One of the men, a wild-haired, shirtless fellow, was fast enough to throw himself prone and grab his weapon. As he returned to a firing position, however, a single las-bolt from Wulfhausen's weapon leapt up to meet him. It impacted with his forehead, splitting his skull open like a gory fruit; he was dead before he hit the ground. The lookout party had been neutralized.

"Stark, Streeter, go check it out." Girard whispered into his mouthpiece, scanning from the road, to the slope, and back to the road, in search of a possible counterattack. The two men darted across the field, quickly scaling the small ladder that led up the structure. Stark's wiry form dipped into a crouch, weapon leveled against the railing as he covered Streeter's search.

"Tell me what you see," Girard breathed. He waited for a moment; finally, Streeter was the first to reply:

"They're filthy. It looks like they haven't bathed in weeks." He mused. Girard watched from his vantage point back in the trees. The entire squad flinched as a startled yelp burst across the vox channel. Girard saw a flash of movement up at the concrete structure, accompanied by a snarl from Streeter's vox and a sickening crunch.

"Streeter, talk to me." Girard's eyes narrowed, his finger resting gently on the trigger of his weapon. The reply came after a long moment:

"Emperor's blood," Streeter cursed.

"What happened?"

"One of them was alive," He replied.

"…And?"

"He's not anymore." He said. Several voxes opened up on the channel, chuckling was audible from several members of Delta Squad.

"I just turned him over. I think he tried to _bite_ me." He continued. His tone was one of shock and disgust.

"Right then, it's done. We'll come to you. Be ready to move," Girard ordered, his voice maddeningly calm compared with his subordinate. He waved up the rest of the squad, who took off at a run.

"Aye, Sergeant." They said in unison.

Upon reaching the concrete structure, the outcome of the encounter became clear. The man in question hardly had a face anymore. The rapidly expanding pool of crimson, collecting under his head and staining his jacket, was peppered with gleaming white teeth. The stock of Streeter's grenade launcher was slick with the traitor's blood.

"Imperium one, traitors zero. Well done," Wulfhausen remarked. He patted the smaller man on the back; second only to Girard, Wulfhausen was one of the largest men in the squad; his congratulatory 'pat' knocked Streeter forwards a step. Presently, the distant cracklings of las-fire and percussive thump-thump of autocannons drifted through the air. Heads swiveled and weapons were leveled at the source of the sound. The Observator complex was nearby.

"We're close, pick up the pace," Girard called. His muscles burned from the exertion of the climb, but the sound of the guns made him redouble his efforts. Sucking in great lungfuls of air, he propelled himself up the mountainside. His gloved hands tore at rocks and scrub brush, pulling him ever upwards towards the battle ahead. For the remainder of the climb, the vox channel was silent; the only sounds each trooper heard were the distant gunfire and his own labored breathing.

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++09.37 Hrs.

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

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Over the tree line, the facility finally bobbed into view. The sounds of battle were louder now; indistinct shouting could be heard over the din of small arms fire and the thump of grenade detonations. Delta Squad emerged from the trees, back onto the side of the access road in front of the array; their efficient physiology allowed them to recover mere moments after their climb came to a close. Each man allowed a moment to open his visor for a moment to mop their brows; the crisp, thin mountain air kissed their flesh, only to be shut off again by their faceplates. Through the trees, they took stock of their objective: a ring of brown concrete structures, enclosed by a black chain-link fence, squatted atop the summit like a crown upon the mountain's head. A tidy row of satellite dishes and telemetry equipment sat apart from the buildings, secured by their own chain-link enclosure.

The front of the complex was in a bad way: a blown-out chimera transport blocked the entrance, another pair sitting several feet inside, deep track marks showing their fated journey through a crushed section of fence. Barricades had been haphazardly thrown down all along the front courtyard, behind which several squads' worth of infantry now sat, pouring fire into the building. Outside of the furthest vehicle, a knot of infantry were taking potshots at a pair of windows on the 4th floor. Las-fire spat from the windows, peppering the destroyed vehicle, but failing to hit their true targets. Girard waved Corporal Stern over to him:

"Corporal," Girard breathed.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"We're going for a Devourer maneuver. Take Stark, Veidt and Johannsen on the left flank. I'll take Postigo, Streeter and Wulfhausen. Advance on my mark."

The squad broke into two groups. Stern and his men crouched behind a fallen fir, waiting for Girard's signal. Girard's group split off to the right of their original position, facing up the hill towards the buildings, weapons at the ready. Girard knelt beside his group, bolter leveled at the attackers. During a brief lull in the gunfire, he swept his hand down:

"Move, move!" he shouted. Girard bounded to his feet as Stern's group burst across the road, skirting the trees on the left. He and his men moved in time with their comrades, taking aim at the troops behind the chimera and opening fire as they surged through the breach in the fence. Two muted thumps echoed from the right, followed by two earth-shaking blasts, hurling a pack of traitors from their cover.

The frag rounds sliced the men to ribbons, spraying one another with their blood. Streeter's aim was true; he might have been a bit green by normal standards, but the boy had an undeniable affinity for his grenade launcher. With the grenade blasts revealing their position, the traitors' field of fire slowly adjusted from the facility to their rear. A man who could possibly be a squad leader gestured wildly in the direction of Sterns' group, and from another squad, Girard saw one guardsman leveling an ill-maintained lasgun in his direction.

"I'll do ya one better, swine," He snarled inside his helmet. He hefted his bolter into position and squeezed the trigger.

Even after hours spent familiarizing himself with his new weapon on the range, the sheer destructive power of a boltgun was no less incredible. When he opened fire, the weapon bucked and shuddered in his grip – Girard began to feel as though he wasn't so much the operator of the weapon, but rather that he was simply along for the ride. The sooty roar of the bolter announced itself to the battlefield, drowning out the lasgun fire with its baritone fury. The rounds pelted through the air, shredding a pack of guardsmen cowering behind a Chimera into a pile of gore and flailing limbs.

The mass-reactive shells detonated inside their targets, pulverizing flesh and bone with contemptuous ease. Girard gritted his teeth, leaned his shoulder in and steered the mighty weapon to his left, lining up another group of traitors and pummeling them with well-placed fire. Miniature explosions blossomed along the barricades, peppering the men with shrapnel before more rounds ripped into them, knocking limbs apart and chewing through armor. Delta Squad advanced, forming into a loose, inverted chevron pattern, closing the gap with weapons blazing.

A storm of las-bolts and stubber rounds poured from the windows, knocking apart barricades and punching their targets from their feet. The defenders saw the opening the Stormtroopers had provided, and were opening up with renewed purpose. Shouts of alarm and loud curses erupted from the ranks of traitors as they realized their predicament all too late. Between the two points of fire from the bolter, frag rounds, and las-guns, the remaining traitors were unable to mount a retreat. They were reduced to shuddering, bullet-ridden corpses within moments.

As abruptly as the firefight had begun, it was over. Scattered bodies of the guardsmen lay broken and bleeding in the yard alongside the smoking wreckage of their cover. Girard tucked his weapon against his chest as he slowed to a walk. The maneuver Delta Squad had just executed was aptly named. It was coined after Hive Fleet Leviathan, the "Great Devourer": an unthinkably vast swarm of mindless alien beasts that were entering from below the galactic plane. The maneuver was used when an enemy force was pinned between an existing field of fire, unable to advance or retreat.

The guns inside the building had fallen silent; that could wait, however. From beside one of the burnt-out Chimeras, Postigo waved to Girard, his disembodied voice crackling over the vox.

"It looks like one of the little shits survived," He announced, with equal parts excitement and disgust. The other members of Girard's group defaulted into a loose defensive formation, scanning the edges of the engagement area and following their Sergeant. When they reached the Chimera, Girard finally got a closer look at his foe. He hastily undid the pressure seals on his helmet, tugging it off and ramming it into Postigo's chest as he stalked up to the survivor.

"Not looking so good there, scum," Girard spat. He slung his bolter behind him, cinching down the strap with one hand as the other pulled his sidearm from its holster. He held the heavy-caliber slug thrower aloft as he stood above his prey.

A trio of scorch marks marred the man's leg, and two fingers were missing from his right hand. He held up the cauterized appendage in a feeble attempt to keep his assailant at bay. His free hand clawed pathetically at the churned up dirt, whimpering like a child before a wrathful authority figure. Girard leveled his pistol at the traitor's functioning arm, and put a round through his shoulder. The angry crack of the discharge echoed across the mountaintop, earning a shriek of agony from the guardsman.

"Please, d-don't…" He whimpered.

"Stop moving," Girard shouted, firing another round into the man's gut. He curled into a fetal position, clutching at the hole in his belly. He made an awful sound, a gurgling screech from between blood-slick teeth. Girard stood over the quivering wreck of the guardsman, shadow falling across his terrified face. He shifted his aim to his enemy's face, pausing to address him:

"You chose the wrong side, brother. We stand together, or not at all," he said. He squeezed the trigger again, this time his shot punched through the man's cheek, detonating the back of his skull in a welter of blood and bone fragments. The body fell limp; his death-rattle and the flickering flames of the Chimeras were the only sounds in the courtyard.

Girard holstered his pistol, turning to face his men. They had all raised their visors, now that the foe had been neutralized. Some of them remained expressionless, merely staring at the dead man. Others, like Wulfhausen and Stern were nodding slowly, faces displaying grim satisfaction. Girard sighed, feeling a brief pang of pity for the enemy. He walked over to Postigo to retrieve his helmet.

"It's done, gents. Let's see to the survivors."


	5. Here they come!

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++10.02 Hrs.

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

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Girard held his helmet under his arm, staying several paces ahead of his men as they advanced on the now silent complex. While his weapons remained holstered and helmet off, his men had shut their visors once again and brought up the rear, weapons trained in on the central building. He knew there were eyes all over his squad, and that first impressions were everything. Displaying poise and calm, as well as showing off a bit, at this stage was important in establishing a sense of respect from whoever might be hiding inside.

As they approached, Girard scanned the courtyard and its surrounding buildings. The main complex was huddled against the edge of a small hill, in a roughly semi-circular pattern. The yard sprawled before the imposing structures ahead, a once-manicured walkway bisecting the two spaces of open grass; the only evidence it existed was an occasional shard of rockcrete. The ground was littered with empties and enemy corpses. He noted a series of parallel lumps of earth in front of the radar array to his far right corner. His observations were suddenly cut short:

"The Emperor has truly blessed us this day! Welcome to Observator Facility Primus, my friends," A voice boomed from a las-scarred window on the second floor. At once, Delta Squad's weapons snapped to the offending window, searching for the source of the the front doors, clunking and scraping sounds could be heard from within. After a moment, the metal doors eased open, and a lone figure stepped out into the morning sun.

"Sergeant Burkhalter of the 33rd Elysian Stormtrooper Regiment. Your cries for help have not gone unheard," Girard put up a gloved hand in greeting. The man took a bow:

"Father Patraeus of His Most Holy Ministorum. You and your men are a welcome sight, Brother Sergeant." The preacher called, arms open as though ready to embrace Girard and his men. A gilded emblem of office hung from a chain about his neck, resting gently on stained coveralls. A ponytail topped his graying head, and he had a pair of storm-cloud eyes to match.

"We recently recieved a message from your flagship, the _Justicar_. I understand the full might of the Guard is being brought to bear. Please, come inside." Father Patraeus waved Delta Squad forward towards the front doors, and into the dim space beyond.

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10.12Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

Observator Facility Primus. Admin Wing: Corridor A-1.

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Father Patraeus led Delta Squad past groups of grim-faced PDF and Administratum staff. Among them, there were those without uniforms, civilians who had managed to find refuge in the mountains. Their clothes, as well as the soldiers', were threadbare and caked with blood around the knees and sleeves. Girard guessed that these men and women had been fighting the traitors for weeks, and had resorted to hand-to-hand combat to repel their foes on more than one occasion.

When Girard and his men passed by, most of the defenders voiced their thanks. Others, after witnessing the ferocity of their attack, were unsure of how to conduct themselves and simply stepped aside. The state of the building became less dismal as they ascended further; the rust-colored stains and scorch marks became fewer and farther between.

Presently, the preacher pushed open a set of glass doors, each stenciled with a frosted image of the Aquila, the Imperial Eagle. Girard briefly noted their pristine condition, despite carbon scoring and bullet holes decorating the walls around them. He was quickly pulled from his thoughts as Father Patraeus announced them to the people inside with a bold, charismatic voice:

"Brothers and Sisters, I bring you Sergeant Burkhalter, and the brave Stormtroopers that… _intervened_ in the courtyard." He stepped aside, and gave another bow. A handful of PDF and Administratum workers looked up from their respective terminals, quickly standing out of respect for the elite warriors. More men and comms servitors sat at glowing banks of monitors in a concentric ring set several feet into the floor, tapping away at computers and conversing softly. One of them, a younger, sandy-haired man in charcoal-colored jumpsuit, vaulted up the ledge and addressed Girard:

"So the Big Toy Soldiers are here to save the day, eh?" He remarked, placing his hands on his hips. Girard, shushing Stern as he grumbled at the pejorative.

"It would appear so, sir." He replied. He noted the striped metallic bars on his collar, his name tape, and his unit patch all in a glance –Warrant Officer Curran of the 9th Mountain Radio Batallion.

"That was quite a show you lot put on out there. No mercy." the man jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a glaring bank of security monitors.

"Someone's got to bring this mess under control, sir," Girard stepped in and shook hands with Curran.

"Well, at any rate, don't get too comfortable, Sergeant. We just picked more of these bastards headed along the access road. They're still awhile off, so that gives us some time to prepare. We could use your help." He beckoned Girard over to a bank of monitors. He turned to his men:

"Stern, Postigo, take the men and see to the defenses any way that you can, and keep your voxes on. I'll be in touch." He ordered. His men acknowledged, and filed out of the room. Girard returned his attention to Warrant Officer Curran:

"Now, about those tanks,"

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10.21Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

Observator Facility Primus. Roof Access.

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Johannsen clipped his pressure helmet to his utility belt, taking a deep breath of the mountain air. The view from the roof of Facility Primus' central intelligence was even better than their drop zone. The surrounding landscape was visible for miles around, over top of the wooded foothills. To the south, narrow highways crisscrossed the plains, studded with the occasional gray speckled blob of a town or way station. To the east, he traced the path of a mighty river, snaking off into the horizon like a great sapphire ribbon. Behind him, the mountains continued in a swerving path across the plains.

"Back to the Material, Stretch," A booming voice shattered his reverie. He glanced up in time to see a sandbag hurtling toward his face. Lightning reflexes threw his arms out in front of him, rolling with the impact to avoid tumbling from the rooftop. He and Wulfhausen were fortifying gun emplacements on the roof, doing a bit of heavy lifting for the PDF. Veidt and Stark were on their way up, autocannon in tow.

"Mind the edge, ya _barbarian_ – dead is useless, after all," He repeated a favorite mantra of their cadet instructors. After he stacked his sandbag, he glanced over the parapet, down the several stories into the courtyard below. Wulfhausen chuckled, depositing one sandbag down on the small barrier they were constructing, heaving another off his shoulder.

"Y'know, you might actually be more useful as a sandbag," He joked, referring to the rest of the squad, who was busy reinforcing the main doors. He pointed over the edge, turning the gesture into open-palmed nudge at his comrade. Johannsen rolled his shoulder back to avoid the push, and delivered a left-straight punch to the hulking man's left pectoral. He grunted, letting the other sandbags tumble to the roof as he lowered into an exaggerated combat stance.

"I take offense to that – I'm far too dainty, you see!" Johannsen said, mirroring Wulfhausen's stance. A gap-toothed grin split his craggy features:

"Must've lost your mind, boy," He lunged forward, jabbing at the air with his gloved fists. Johannsen slapped the jabs away, chuckling as he bobbed and weaved away from Wulfhausen's assault. The small knots of PDF and civilians also on the roof were watching the exchange; some smiled at their antics, most simply muttered under their breath and continued their work.

"What're you gonna do, big man? Without me, who's gonna drive the 'cooker?" he jerked his head back, in the general direction of his meltagun, resting on its bipod beside the parapet. He shuffled backwards, nodding in the direction of a man and woman, both in stained coveralls.

"Can you believe this beast? Coming after his greatest friend like this? These are dark times, my dear – dark times," He laughed. The laugh turned to a grunt as one of Wulfhausen's punches found its mark. The woman giggled at Johannsen's quirky charm; the man merely rolled his eyes and led her away.

"Oi, quit playin' grab-ass over there, you two. A little help here?" Stark waddled backwards out of the roof access hatch, clutching the barrel of the autocannon and draped with belts of ammunition. As the weapon appeared from the hatch, Veidt emerged as well, with a pair of missile tubes slung across his back. As the physically largest man on the roof, Wulfhausen left the sandbag stacking to Johannsen, and hustled over to the autocannon:

"Move aside, move aside. I've got this," Wulfhausen ducked under the barrel of the autocannon, nudging his comrade out of the way. The two men lugged the weapon over to its tripod, which rested behind the freshly arranged sandbags. Wulfhausen squatted beside the weapon to guide it into position, scooping up a wrench beside him.

Veidt shrugged off the missile launchers and propped them against the parapet, beside several bundles of rockets and ammo cans.

"How much time do we have?" Veidt sighed, rolling his shoulder to work out a kink. Wulfhausen waved a dismissive hand:

"Ah, plenty." He assured his comrade. "You're not worried about these rabble are you, pretty boy?" He teased. Veidt rolled his eyes:

"Certainly not," he scoffed. The man had a talent for conjuring up a disapproving, elitist sneer. The other men had joked that it was hereditary; in his formative years, Cristopf Veidt was welcomed into the Schola Progenium after the assassination of his parents, respected nobility on a distant paradise world, according to his personnel file. His patrician features, aesthetically pleasing bone structure, and narrow blue eyes gave credence to their theory.

The men of Delta Squad went about their business, fortifying the rooftop and engaging in idle chit-chat. For men who were about to face an armored assault by traitor guardsmen, they were remarkably calm.

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10.42Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

Observator Facility Primus. Operations Level.

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Girard leaned over a monitor, absorbing tactical data like a sponge. Warrant Officer Curran explained to him their predicament. The facility had been damaged in the initial attacks to the point that emergency distress transmitters were among the only form of communication available. They could receive deep-space transmissions – in fact, this facility was one of the few on the planet capable of doing so- but sending any of their own was impossible. Their short-range auspexes and surveillance equipment however, were still operational. While any semblance of communication off-planet was impossible, Observator Facility Primus could still mind its surroundings. Curran was now explaining what they were able to see.

A column of chimeras, supported by modified Armageddon Pattern sentinel walkers, were making their way up the mountainside. The troop transports were well-armored, bulky targets; the most the defenders had to fear from them was the autocannon turrets. They were also equipped with hull-mounted flamers; so far, they hadn't come close enough to present a threat.

The Sentinels were another matter entirely. Legs four times at tall as a man and carried forward by hydraulic force, they were capable of impressive speeds even in the most exceedingly brutal terrain; they would be tough targets to hit before they closed. The las-cannons mounted to their hulls added to the danger; the brick construction of the facility had held up surprisingly well against sustained small arms fire, but against such powerful weapons there was little defense.

"Well, the one bright spot in all of this is the Sentinels' armaments," Girard mused. Curran raised an eyebrow:

"Granted, I'm not a tactician, but am I missing something, Sergeant? How are lascannons the bright spot In all this?" He asked, more than just a hint of incredulity in his voice. Girard pointed a gloved finger at one of the monitors that displayed a still shot of an incoming sentinel.

"Take a look, sir. Yes, they mimic the Armageddon Pattern's weapon systems, but their cockpits are relatively unarmored. One good shot, and it's lights out for the pilot. Good thing they skimped on armor, eh? I take it Knossos hasn't faced many Ork incursions in recent years?" He asked. Curran shook his head, staring at the monitor. Girard continued:

"Even with Armageddon-style plating, my men's weaponry could still shred the pilots – the only issue is range, and that's what the las-cannons have. They'll likely provide covering fire for the chimeras as they move into position." He explained.

"Well that doesn't help us any. How do you propose we handle these sentinels?" Curran asked.

"My men and wait for them, over in the tree line to the left of the gates. I didn't see any vox equipment them, so they won't be expecting Stormtroopers to come leaping from the bushes." Girard dragged a finger across an interactive display panel, creating bold lines of white on the screen as he explained their plan of action.

"The sentinels will be arriving first to soften up your gunners' positions, allowing the chimeras to close without risk. We'll handle the sentinels; you make sure those chimeras keep their distance."

"That's a sound plan. I'll have my men get into position and ready themselves for another infantry push. We've been saving some 'Busters for just such an occasion, in case any armor gets too close."

"Busters?" Girard raised an eyebrow.

"Krak rounds." Curran explained. "It's a local term."

Girard nodded. Curran hustled away to an adjacent control panel. He swept up a small mouthpiece tethered to the panel and clicked the activation rune. He began relaying the orders through the facility's PA system. Girard pressed a finger to his earpiece, opening a channel to Delta Squadron's vox:

"We're moving in five, Delta. Streeter, load your Krak rounds. Johannsen, fire up your Melta. We're going tank hunting."

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11.08Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

Observator Facility Primus. Access Rd. 66.

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Delta Squad crouched in a thicket beside the access road, not far from the same patch of woods they had originally entered. Girard caught himself watching waves of heat ripple off the inky asphalt; he shook himself back to attention, adjusting his grip on his bolter. On the opposite side of the road, Johannsen laid in wait, flanked by Stark and Veidt. His Meltagun was propped up on its bipod, concealed beneath a leafy fern. Presently, the rumble of machinery and indistinct shouting could be heard drifting up the road.

The sentinels came strutting into view. They moved with a kind of savage grace, exhaust vents belching trails of oily smoke in their wake. Through the cockpits, the dirty, soot-blackened pilots could be seen fidgeting with barely-restrained excitement. The sentinels were far ahead of the slower, heavier chimeras; apparently they had left their comrades in the dust, such was their murderous zeal. But the sentinels were not to reach Facility Primus. Over the chugging engines, the point man was deaf to the soft rushing of Johannsen's weapon, melting the ankle joints of his walker as he passed through the ambush.

The sentinel pitched forward, the driver's shriek of terror cut off as he was thrown from the cockpit, head smashed to a bloody pulp as it impacted with the road. With a bone rattling crash, metal ground against asphalt and hydraulic legs kicked impotently in an effort to right themselves. The first sentinel was down.

The other sentinels slowed their pace, chassis panning back and forth, searching for their hidden assailants. The drivers cursed loudly, waving to one another as they scanned the trees. As one of the sentinels panned across the left side of the road, Stark and Veidt showered the cockpit with a flurry of las-bolts. The driver howled in rage as his body was torn apart by enemy fire. His mutilated hands pulled back on his controls as his body spasmed in near-death; he backpedaled directly into the side of the sentinel beside him.

"Fire at will," Girard breathed.

Las-fire leapt from both sides of the road, slicing up into their vulnerable prey. Like their frontrunner, the other pilots were ripped to shreds by Delta Squad's attack. With long, drunken steps, the once-deadly killing machines stumbled and crashed to the pavement. Had they not been piloted by traitorous filth, hell-bent on slaughtering Imperial citizens and servicemen, Girard might have laughed. Sophisticated software in the vehicles' cockpits shut off the chugging motors as the chassis turned over some predetermined angle; these fail-safes prevented further engine damage, and now they left the mountaintop in a state of sudden calm.

Delta Squad remained still, scanning the wreckage for survivors. Within moments, a bloodied hand stretched out from the bent frame of one of the destroyed sentinels. It was followed by a bruised arm, and then a head. A single shot leapt from Stark's weapon, bursting the head of the crewman. The arm fell limp.

Streeter's voice crackled over the vox:

"Sergeant, where are the chimeras? Shouldn't we be hearing them by now?" He asked, with a casual air that deepened Girard's sudden sense of alarm. He was right: the transports should have been visible by now, and the throaty rumble of their engines audible long before that. Stark, Veidt and Johannsen stood up slowly, shrugging across the road at Girard.

A muffled crack came from somewhere behind the trio, and Stark's shoulder exploded.

"Take cover, _take cover_!" Girard bellowed into the vox. He watched in slow motion as Stark stumbled forward, knees driving furrows in the dirt as he collapsed. Howls of triumph went up from inside the trees, followed by a staccato of auto-fire. The rounds slammed into Stark, knocking ugly chunks from his carapace armor and pitching his head backward at an unnatural angle. The Stormtrooper flopped to the ground, body riddled with a mixture of las-burns and bullet holes. A riot of noise exploded across the vox:

"Stark is down, he's not moving," Johannsen shouted.

"How the _frag_ did they get behind us?" Veidt chimed in.

"Stark, are you still with us?" Girard voxed. No response.

"Damnit, Stark. Grunt if you can hear me." He pleaded. Still no response.

"Veidt, Johannsen, get clear," Girard ordered. His voice still carried its calm and authoritative tone, in spite of the chaos. Inside, however, his thoughts were screaming along his synapses and in a million different directions. The two Stormtroopers across the road flipped over the shallow embankment that served as their cover, performing a lightning fast combat crawl through the grass and weeds. Girard and his men had a clear field of fire when two platoons worth of infantry came tearing into view.

Hotshot fire chased a hail of bolter rounds downrange, plowing into the rushing tide of guardsmen and plucking the front runners from their feet. They leapt over logs and rocks, gunfire going wild due to a complete lack of fire discipline. Angry hisses of return fire sounded all around Girard and his men as they poured rounds into their foe. Seeing only Girard's men across the road, the guardsmen began taking up firing positions near the ditch where the ambush was sprung.

A mud-crusted guardsman came skidding to a halt along the earthen embankment. He unfolded the stock of his weapon, pressed it into his shoulder, and took aim. He paused for a moment, casting a sidelong glance to something on the ground beside him. He watched, temporarily shocked into inaction as a hulking shape appeared from over the edge of the embankment, turning in his direction.

Before the guardsman could shout a warning to his fellows, a stream of superheated gas rushed from Johannsen's meltagun, fusing the traitor's lasgun to his flesh. His scream died in his throat as he inhaled the searing air, boiling his lungs from the inside out. His flesh melted like bloody wax, sloughing off his bones and oozing to the greenery beneath him. The melta stream engulfed the traitor next to him, melting his arm apart at the shoulder and searing his skull open.

Johannsen dipped into a shallow crouch, strafing along and vaporizing several more guardsmen as he avoided their hail of las-fire. As the enemy began to find their aim, he was forced scamper through the dirt and away from danger. Veidt was pinned down on the far side, shrugging sheepishly towards his comrades across the road as weapons fire impacted all around him.

"Veidt, I need you to secure Stark, get him back to the facility. We'll provide covering fire from our side. Keep doing work, Johannsen." Girard ordered. He returned his attention to the men on his side of the road.

"Advancing Center Peel, Postigo take the lead. On my mark," He waved a gloved hand in the air, signaling to form up. Delta Squad spread out across their side of the road, still taking shots of opportunity at their foes.

"Mark."

Girard's group raced forward across the road with Postigo at the front. He advanced steadily, letting loose a volley of las-fire. Several seconds elapsed and Wulfhausen rushed forward, ahead of Postigo to mimic the interval of fire. Each member of Delta Squad took turns at the lead, forming a staggered column, "peeling" away as a new man rose up to lead position. This created a never-ending hail of gunfire that shredded everything in their path. With the air absolutely inundated with las-bolts, the sheer intensity of the noise alone was enough to give any infantry unit pause. Delta Squad took the fight over the embankment, picking up Veidt and Johannsen along the way. Seconds later, they passed over Stark, his prone form groaning in pain.

"Veidt, Stern, get him medical attention. We have more than enough pressure on them now," Girard voxed over the backdrop of small-arms fire. The two men broke off from the group, Johannsen scanning Delta Squad's left arc while Veidt hoisted Stark into a fireman carry.

"Gah, wiry but dense, this one," He grunted.

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11.31Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

Observator Facility Primus.

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The beige-suited infantrymen were falling back, and Delta Squad fanned out at the perimeter fence. The five Stormtroopers formed a loose screen across the breach, firing after their foes as they fled.

"Sergeant, we're inside. Veidt is taking Stark to the infirmary. Orders?" Stern voxed to Girard. Before he could respond however, the throaty rumble of diesel engines was heard from around the bend in the access road. The chimera formation burst into view, autocannons spraying wildly as they fought for position in their murderous race. Delta Squad fell back through the breach, leaping behind the cover of the barricades. Girard swore inside his helmet as he rolled into cover.

"Orders? Get on a missile launcher and take those fraggin' things out!" He shouted.

For the second time, a pack of chimeras were barreling towards the buildings, blowing right past the huddled Stormtroopers. Autocannons chewed away masonry and flamers licked at the air as though in hungry anticipation. Ineffective las-fire from the defenders speckled off their armored hulls, and krak rounds thumped into the earth just shy of their targets.

Streeter managed to tag a chimera in its fuel reserves as it passed his cover. A percussive _crack-boom_ accompanied by a blinding flash spelled death for the unlucky driver. The vehicle pitched forward, dragging a long furrow in the dirt before grinding to a halt. Explosions riddled the vehicle as the autocannon rounds cooked off inside.

"Sergeant, eyes up - am I seeing things?" Postigo's incredulous voice crackled across the vox. Girard glanced up through the sky; sure enough, five aircraft were swooping down towards the battle.

"No, Corporal, you are not." He confirmed, barely able to hide his own shock. Two Vulture gunships, followed by a pair of sealed Valkyrie troop transports and a bulky infantry shuttle, were streaking through the atmosphere towards them. Through the glare of the late morning sun, pinpricks of light could be seen flashing from below the Vultures' wings. Girard realized with a start that the lights were the Vultures' rocket pods firing.

"Hit the deck!" he screamed into his mouthpiece, flinging himself into the dirt. They were too distant to make out any insignia; they could only hope that that their comrades from Valparaiso decided to arrive early.

The Stormtroopers dropped behind cover, and not a moment too soon. The Hellfire Rockets slammed into the earth, heaving up great mounds of earth and annihilating the chimeras in a storm of fiery death. Vast blades of shrapnel and flaming body parts scythed through the air, arcing over the heads of Delta Squad, who remained behind their precious cover. Heavy Bolter rounds raked the ground where the vehicles were moments ago, ensuring that nothing lived in the courtyard. The small arms fire shut off like a hose, leaving only the awful shriek of the craft's engines.

"Can anyone tell if those are ours?" Girard shouted.

"Either they are, or these traitors's pilots are even worse shots than their infantry," Stern grumbled into the vox.

After a tense moment, Girard dared to look over the lip of his barricade. The infantry was all but dispersed, the chimeras little more than half-melted scrap, and the courtyard more like a moonscape than anything that could have once harbored life. He was especially thankful that the gunners on the vultures were not only competent, but the machine spirits in their guidance systems were gloriously accurate.

"They're a little early, aren't they?" Wulfhausen growled, dusting off his shoulders as he rose to his feet. One Vulture had continued its path over the trees, back towards the fleeing infantry. The other hovered high above the facility, its nose-mounted heavy bolter scanning to and fro. Delta Squad dusted themselves off, secured their weapons, and slowly made their through the wreckage of the courtyard.

"Apparently the others have made short work of the missile batteries." Girard mused over the vox. The distant chatter of a heavy bolter drifted over the canopy behind them. The Valkyries and the shuttle were hovering over the courtyard, pilots preparing to touch down. They would find out the reason for their salvation soon enough.


	6. Another Day, Another Foe

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11.43Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 92.6x38.44.

Observator Facility Primus.

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Delta Squad gathered at the front center of the compound, to avoid being crushed beneath the vastness of their reinforcements. Girard and his men waited, relieved that the enemy force was dispersed. Stark was still in the infirmary, being treated for multiple gunshot wounds. The carapace armor absorbed most of the center-mass hits, but his shoulder was a bloody ruin and his helmet was ruined by a glancing las-bolt. Much to his chagrin, Stark would not be continuing in the liberation of Knossos. Delta Squad had suffered its first casualty.

"What's gonna happen with him?" Stern asked, after several moments of silent waiting.

"He's getting the attention he needs; when the comms are back up here, he's going to report in to the detachment." Girard said, and then added:

"He'll be fine."

The Valkyries' doors ratcheted down as they descended beside the blocky infantry transport, revealing huddled, red-robed figures and crates of telemetry equipment inside. The shuttle obscured a large portion of the buildings with its vast bulk, carefully squatting in the landing zone. The prop-wash from the mighty birds' engines sprayed a fine layer of dirt across the yard, licking up the sides of the buildings and forcing Delta Squad to remain hidden behind their helmets.

The shuttle's ramps lowered with a mechanical whine, disgorging the olive-suited infantry of the Valparaiso 88th. They were a tall, dark-skinned breed: clean-shaven faces hid beneath freshly requisitioned helmets, regimental insignia boldly displayed on their shoulder guards. A full company's worth of men poured from the loading ramps, gear jingling as they hustled across the blasted earth. Delta Squad looked on as heavy weapons crews hauled tripod-mounted heavy bolters, mortars and las-cannon emplacements out of the cavernous vessel. A cheer went up from inside the facility as their liberators made their way to the battle-scarred buildings.

"Thanks for saving us from being overrun, 'trooper. And from being gutted and hung from the rooftops by unwashed heathens. Oh, and for sparing us from death by las cannon, that certainly was kind of you. Emperor bless you, 'trooper." Veidt ranted in a nasal, mocking tone.

"Ungrateful bastards," Streeter chimed in.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but Veidt has a point." Stern grumbled. "Where were they while we fought and bled for them not minutes ago?"

"Mere mortals are intimidated by the likes of us, you must understand. They can't be blamed for forgetting themselves in the presence of greatness. You see, their paltry praises cannot do our mighty deeds justice, so they instead opt for awed silence." Girard explained, shaking his fist at the sky. He finished his eloquent rant, grinning inwardly as chuckles and affirmations filled the vox channel.

"Well, when you put it _that _way,"

"Well said, Sergeant,"

"More of a prophet than a guardsman, he is," Johannsen placed a hand to his breast, shaking his head in mock adulation, as though listening to a particularly fiery sermon.

"Pah, I wouldn't be right in the head either, if I were in their position," Veidt said solemly. The heads of Delta Squad swiveled in his direction; even Girard cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Was that compassion I just heard?" he asked.

"Like Hell it is. I don't know if I could stand working with those garbage PDF, all alone on an Emperor-forsaken mountaintop, and playing grab-ass with swarms of mud-men that smell like months of piss and ball-sweat." Veidt launched into a tirade. As Delta Squad enjoyed another of his characteristic rants, they watched as three smaller figures leapt from the closest Valkyrie. They were already moving across the yard as the bird's landing skids sank into the soft earth, engines idling and slowing to a dull whine. The center figure turned 'round without breaking stride, drawing a hand across its neck. The prop-wash began to die down, and the tech-priests began to unload their equipment. Delta Squad was afforded the luxury of raising their visors.

"And look at _these_ peacocks," Veidt was on a roll. He gestured expressively at the Valkyrie's occupants. "Can't they see all that's left here is a shortcut to Hell? Stop with all the fraggin' posturing, it's embarrassing,"

Two bulkier forms flanked the smallest one, clad in the blue and gray uniforms of Navy armsmen and protected behind black plates of flak armor. They slunk across the yard towards the approaching Stormtroopers, polished and oiled autoguns flitting back and forth as they scanned the area for threats. They were all sharp technique and textbook maneuvers, all useless bravado that – while displaying considerable martial discipline – appeared played-up and wholly unnecessary to the elite soldiers of Delta Squad. As they came closer and became more distinct, the center figure tugged off its pressure helmet, revealing its identity. Girard couldn't quite believe what he saw.

"Oh, you're kidding." He breathed an exasperated sigh.

"What is it, Sergeant?" Stern asked.

"It seems I just can't escape the attentions of the Imperial Navy – one sailor in particular. Just keep quiet, all of you." He sighed, slinging his weapon and approaching the trio.

"I'm not sure I understa– oh bloody hell," Stern remarked. Standing between the pair of armsmen was a familiar female navy officer, with a set of icy blue eyes.

"Good morning, ma'am!" Girard held up a hand in greeting while his men went to parade rest.

"Good morning, Sergeant," The woman waved a gloved hand, while adjusting her tightly-bound bun of strawberry blonde hair with the other. As she spoke, her rolling, accented words managed to pierce the ambient noise.

"Lieutenant Kséniya Maksachova, Naval Intelligence Field Operations. I need to speak with you at once," She demanded, eyes scanning the gathered Stormtroopers. Girard took a step forward. He clenched his fists as one of his men muttered,

"Never heard of ya,"

"Certainly. And to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?" He asked. He could feel the glares of the armsmen through their featureless helmets.  
_Eyes off me, you star-surfing boy lovers,_ he thought.

"First things first. You and your men are to be commended for your valiant defense of this facility. Your efforts will prove instrumental in the liberation of this world." She nodded her appreciation, scanning the assembled warriors. They all bowed their heads in customary thanks.

"I realize that you and your men are ready to take the fight to these swine -however, His Imperial Navy has need of you and your men. We have a need for your more unique experience with a different kind of enemy." She said. Her words received no small amount of confused glances and shrugs from the other men. Something was not quite right. Girard frowned:

"With all due respect, ma'am, I answer to Lord Commissar Kryp-" He began. The Lieutenant cut him off. She pulled a folded sheaf of parchments from a pocket on her flak. She held them aloft, as though to challenge his claim.

"The Lord Commissar's authority has been superseded, Sergeant. You have been temporarily reassigned." She pressed. Girard noted an administratum seal stamped on the papers.

"From this moment forward, your orders will be issued through me or another member of Naval Intelligence. Now that the Observator complex is secure, you are needed elsewhere." She explained. Despite the mixture of confusion and outright frustration at this sudden turn of events, Girard respected the chain of command. He quickly acquiesced.

"What are our orders, ma'am?"

"Not here – for now, know that they are of great significance to the Segmentum Command and require our immediate attention. We must leave at once." She turned 'round, making a whirling motion in the air. The prop-wash from the Valkyrie resumed its flaying effects on the cratered courtyard, and the Lieutenant cinched her pressure helmet back over her delicate features. Girard turned back to his men:

"You heard the Lady, now hop in." He slid his visor shut, and made his way towards the Valkyrie. Delta Squad followed suit.

"So now we're running errands for the Navy tart?" Veidt asked, now that he could voice his opinion over the vox. No sooner had the words left his lips, when the Navy woman's voice flowed like water through their vox channel, rich in bass tones and devoid of static.

"A temporary arrangement, I assure you. Lieutenant is my proper title - I suggest you start using it, boy." She practically spat the last word. Though they kept their voxes silent, the rest of Delta Squad was positively quaking with barely restrained mirth. Johannsen slid his visor up as he hustled alongside Veidt, socking him in the shoulder.

"She's got you in her sights, Cristopf. Watch yourself," He chuckled, sliding his visor back down. Veidt shook his head, opting to remain silent this time. The Vultures returned over the tree line, swooping overhead and waiting to escort the Valkyries to their next destination.

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12.26Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 72.2x56.27.

##IN-TRANSIT##

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Delta Squad sat in the noisy interior of the Valkyrie, soaring high above the wilderness of Knossos to their mysterious destination. Lieutenant Maksachova sat forward against her restraints, her foot holding a dataslate secure on the deck. Out of the dataslate came high-definition pict-slides and scrolling text windows that detailed their altered assignment, which she now explained over the vox.

"Two hundred and fifty miles south of our current position is Perjed's Landing, the only intact commercial star port on this region of the continent capable of receiving super-freighters and other large Imperial vessels – namely, the carriers that will ferry our armored and infantry regiments to the surface. Beneath the star port is a Throne Class, system-wide data vault, housing trade routes, secure approach vectors, and other more sensitive data. It was one of the first major strategic locations to fall to the rebellion. Our path is clear, now that your comrades have secured local air defense platforms."

"So we fly in, evict the enemy, secure the vault, and pave the way for full surface mobilization." Girard pieced it all together. The Lieutenant's helmeted head bobbed in affirmation.

"That is correct. However, the enemy here is far from the rabble you faced at Facility Primus this morning. In fact, they are what higher echelons believe to be the root of this crisis, and why you have been selected to lead this mission." She explained. Delta Squad collectively leaned forward, their attention thoroughly in her grasp.

"What I'm about to tell you comes straight from the chambers of the Navis Nobilite aboard the Justicar. Heed their words," She tapped the toe of her boot, pressing a button on the dataslate. Star charts and sweeping navigator patterns appeared in the air.

"Piracy is rampant in the Segmentum Obscurus, as you well know. In this system, however, it's on a significant downturn. An upstart kabal of the debased Eldar pleasure cults has arrived and systematically slaughtered their competition." She paused to observe their reaction: Girard and his men were rapt, sitting like statues, completely still despite the bumpy conditions aboard the Valkyrie. Girard's body was like a steel coil, balled fists resting gently on his kneepads. She continued, swiping a gloved hand through the displays to bring up new information.

"Their attacks have become more and more bold, and have expanded to planet-side slave runs on several worlds, along with a string of other atrocities." She twirled her finger through the display, bringing up satellite imagery of areas affected by the aliens' schemes, along with stomach-turning evidence of their crimes. In a flurry of windows, shaky video feeds appeared: barbaric executions, the awful screams of families and lovers as they were seperated and dragged off to a gruesome fate, heaps of mangled corpses in flame-gutted hab-blocks, and other horrors best left to the imagination.

"These xenos are cunning, sadistic, and brutal in the extreme, even compared with others of their kind." She then spoke a series of stilted, unnerving syllables, quickly translating it to 'The Void Serpents,' the name by which this particular sect was known.

"These 'Void Serpents' have made Perjed's Landing the heart of their operations in this region, although other, larger detachments are believed to be present elsewhere. They have already repelled an attempt at reclamation; close to an hour ago, contact with two air-assault platoons of the Valparaiso 88th was lost – it appears that your superiors were not content to have the Stormtroopers act alone, but were unprepared for a xenos occupation of the star port" The men of Delta Squad shook their heads, blood beginning to burn with righteous hatred for these murderous fiends.

"So we know what they want?" Girard asked quietly.

"Perhaps large-scale slave harvesting, perhaps something more. We have reason to believe it was the witches' pleasure cultists that infiltrated and corrupted the leaders of industry and planetary politics, instigating secession. Their ambition makes it clear that they have something to prove. Beyond that, I'm afraid all we can do is speculate." She paused.

"As I said before, I've requested to be imbedded with your unit specifically, Sergeant. Your time in the Elysian Drop Troop regiments should prove invaluable in not only purging their taint from the Emperor's realms, but also to discover what their long-term goals and motives are. At this time, you and your men are the best resource we have for combating this threat." Lieutenant Maksachova explained. Girard bowed his head, knowing that this moment would come.

"A wise choice, ma'am. Let's just hope we're prepared." He spoke softly, the cocktail of fear and hatred in his guts mixing with thoughts of his past.

"Indeed. My men – Petty Officers Vald and Alno – and I will be taking up an advisory role on this operation; we will not interfere with your duties unless I deem it necessary." She stated simply.

Girard normally kept his past service discreet. His induction into the Stormtroopers came under rather unique circumstances; he did not come up through the Elysian campus of the Schola Progenium like most of his peers, and as a result, fitting in had been tough. His military career had instead begun in the famed Elysian Drop Trooper regiments, specialists in fast attack and anti-piracy operations.

His duties had ranged from ship-to-ship boarding actions – a cornerstone of the Stormtroopers' operational profile –long range reconnaissance, and lightning assaults on pirate strongholds. The recruitment of exemplary Elysian troops wasn't uncommon, but the Imperium was a big place, and Stormtroopers from scattered corners of the galaxy had reservations about letting such outsiders join their ranks.

He never hid his past from fellow Stormtroopers; in fact he was quite proud to have served with his old outfit. But he never advertised that fact, either. He had earned his title as Sergeant in the Stormtrooper regiments, and that was enough for him. While he supposed this task should come as no huge surprise, A familiar thrill of fear sheared down his spine at the prospect of facing these xenos in combat again. Gears began turning in his head, filling his mind with the unconventional tactics necessary to defeat these Dark Eldar. He had fought against their kind before, both in the Drop Troop regiments, and as a full-fledged Stormtrooper.

The Dark Eldar were, as the Lieutenant had said, a far cry from the trigger-happy amateurs that had overthrown Knossos. His hatred for the fiends was tempered with a strong sense of respect for their battlecraft. They were masters of guerilla tactics, generally well equipped, unpredictable and savage beyond compare. These deadly creatures were not to be trifled with.

With the holo-projection of Perjed's Landing hovering in the center of the crew compartment, Girard began to outline their plan of attack.


	7. Wych Hunting

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15.49Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 63.5x41.78.

. ##ON APPROACH##

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The crew cabin flickered with rapidly flowing holo-images. Schematics of the star port whizzed past, supported by a small swarm of vid-feeds and pict-stills. Girard was hard at work planning the mission.

"After the failed air assault, they'll be expecting more surprises." Girard stared, visor-up, into the holo-projection.

"An additional four platoons of air assault infantry have been deployed early from the Justicar, along with a fighter escort. They will be making entry along the western perimeter of the star port." The Lieutenant assured him, making use of the vox to bypass the roar of the Valkyrie's engines. Girard looked up:

"So much for keeping us informed. Just adding more meat for the grinder, eh?" he said.

"They have their mission, and we have ours." She countered. "Now do you have anything for us?"

"Actually, yes. I'm not crazy about a hot landing like this; these Eldar are pirates through and through, and any pirate base worth its salt is going to expect aerial insertions. If I were them, I'd set up anti-aircraft weapons in these towers here, and here:" He pointed to several of the air traffic control towers, standing like bulb-headed sentries inside the star port. With a sweep of his hand, the holo-projection of Perjed's Landing slid out of view, and the dataslate hummed as its processor fought to render the surrounding terrain.

"We'd be better off touching down outside the port, let's say _here_." Girard pointed to a small clearing, close to three miles from the eastern perimeter fences.

"And our escorts?" She asked. Girard shook his head.

"Call them off, divert them to one of the missile sites we've cleared; better to send them there, instead of risking losing them." He said flatly. Her helmeted head cocked to one side; she was clearly about to protest Girard's decision. He returned the stare, sticking to his decision.

"Stand by," She murmured, a dull pop issuing over the vox. Several moments passed in silence. Out of the window slits on the Valkyrie, the Vultures on both sides banked up and away, and her voice returned:

"Done. What's next?" She asked. Girard could see the heads of his men swiveling in his peripheral. He could already hear their sarcastic remarks and crass jokes about 'giving that navy tart the business' he was sure to hear later.

"We'll approach through these hills, staying low to avoid whatever bizarre detection technology they possess. Their powers of observation will be focused on the skies, and on the infantry push from the west." He began panning the projection back towards the star port. A simple perimeter fence, nearly twenty feet high, bordered the star port. He zoomed in on the eastern side of the complex, from which his squad would enter.

"Now, I've done my part – so where exactly are we headed?" He sat back, turning to face her. She pointed to the immense, domed structure in the center of the display.

"Here," She whipped her finger upwards, scrolling the display underground. A hive of tunnels, bunkers and sub-stations honeycombed the ground beneath the star port. She pointed towards a cavernous expanse of tunnel at the bottom of the network, set in an ovoid shape with a flat bottom.

"Sub-Basement 26D, that's our objective," She said.

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16.12Hrs.

Idaeus County Line. Vidal. 61.0x32.21.

County Route 75

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"Right then, let's move," Girard barked into the vox, ushering his men forward. He held onto an overhead rail, one foot on a landing skid as the Valkyrie descended. Delta Squad leapt from the craft, packed earth rising up to meet them. At once, they fanned out across the clearing, scanning the trees and awaiting Girard and the Navy specialists. Girard then waved the Lieutenant and her men forward.

"Ladies first," He said, not bothering to make any distinction for the pair of armsmen. They too hopped lightly from the carrier without a word, following the Stormtroopers.

Lieutenant Maksachova and her men were well-equipped, even by Navy standards. Their flak armor was of independent manufacture, its weight distributed superbly around their bodies. The Type 5 Pressure Helmets were the same variety used by Elysian Drop Troopers, designed for high-altitude deployments. Their blocky autoguns were in typical of Navy armsmen style. Men like these were often deployed to protect vital areas of an Imperial vessel from enemy boarding parties. Magazines of special armor-piercing auto-rounds were strapped neatly around their waists and slick, expensive comms equipment was stashed in their various vest pockets.

The Lieutenant was the most heavily armed, however. Her pressure helmet was buckled securely to her toolbelt, upon which rested an array of small gadgetry, their purpose lost on Girard, for the most part. In her hands rested a compact, glossy black stub gun – he recognized its configuration from arms catalogs distributed around his barracks back on Elysia. However, of all the expensive custom equipment, her sidearm was what truly captured his attention. A long-barreled, elaborately tooled plasma pistol rested snugly in her hip holster.

"So we're headed for a specific sub-basement, eh? That seems like more than a simple cleanse job," Girard said. He led his men over a hill, avoiding the roadway cutting through the terrain. The Lieutenant called back from the rear of the squad.

"True enough – these xenos are sitting on some assets that Seg Com would rather like to keep out of enemy hands. So we're going to kill everything in sight before they get those hands on what we want." She summarized, earning smirks from the Stormtroopers.

"Sound logic. Now move out, Delta, stay vigilant. Watch your spacing, Streeter." Girard ordered, hefting his own weapon into position, noting with distinct satisfaction that his was, in fact, the biggest beast in the pack. He kept his own helmet buckled to his side as they struck out in the direction of the Perjed's Landing. When hunting pirates as a Drop Trooper, Girard had come to trust his own unobstructed senses, rather than having to view the world through a blinking, beeping HUD. Delta Squad hustled through thickets and over hills, the Lieutenant and her armsmen keeping pace rather well.

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16.48Hrs

45th Parallel. Vidal. 72.1x54.49.

Perjed's Reach. Perimeter Fence East.

Maintenance Quadrant.

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Delta Squad slipped out through the trees, gaining their first view of the star port. The holo-projection certainly did not do its enormous size justice. From their point of ingress, its looming constructon could still be seen beyond the shuttle repair bays. In a loose echelon formation, with Girard at the front, they raced down the rocky slope outside the facility, and up a steep earthen embankment. As they crested the hill, grass gave way to a concrete pad, expanding several feet beyond the perimeter fence. The monolithic spacecraft repair bays loomed overhead, track lights blinking in the afternoon haze. Zigzagging gantries and ladders formed a brittle lattice up the façade of the structures, providing a sense of scale to the keen observer.

"Johannsen, there's a fence in our way." Girard voxed. Silently, Johannsen crept up alongside the lusterless metal of their obstacle. With a near-inaudible flaring sound, he primed the weapon to fire.

The meltagun whooshed softly, vaporizing the steel links of the fence with ease. He made a quick slashing movement and cut a nigh-invisible sliver through the links, just big enough for a grown man to squeeze through. Not only was it adept at slicing through just about anything his way, but the meltagun's near-silent operation made it well-suited to more clandestine operations. With a wave of his hand, Girard ushered his people through the breach. From some distant point across the star port, the echoing crack of las-fire began, punctuated by the blast of frag grenades and various other explosives. The sound of the enemy's weapons, a ghostly metallic hiss, responded in turn. The air assault platoons had arrived.

"These repair bays will allow us easier access to the central concourse." Lieutenant Maksachova voxed, pointing up the side of the nearest structure, marked with a colossal, faded black 4 at the top centre of the receiving deck.

"Good, I love stairs," Veidt murmured, glancing up the enormous structures. Girard narrowed his eyes at him.

"Veidt, take point." He ordered.

"Aye, Sergeant" He sighed, hustling up to the front of the group. He led them across the expanse of oil-stained rockcrete towards the nearest ladder well. It was blocked by another chain link door, secured with a gleaming padlock. Veidt slowed his pace to a trot:

"It's locked." He sighed.

"Johannsen?" Girard waved him over.

"Starting to feel like a criminal here, Sergeant," he chuckled. He whipped the melta stream across the chains holding the door shut. They slid apart and tumbled to the concrete in a limp pile. He eased the door open, rusted joints groaning as it gave way. He shut off his weapon, and took a sweeping bow in Veidt's direction:

"After you, m'lord," He said with a foppish accent.

Boots clattered on the rockcrete stairwell, creating a cacophony of jarring echoes. The Stormtroopers, along with the Lieutenant, were making good time; the arsmen, well-accustomed to scaling unthinkably long ladder wells aboard their flagship, easily kept pace. At every other landing, a black number denoting the floor was stenciled beside the door. Huffing and puffing, Veidt lead the climb until the number 6 swung into view. With a gentle motion, he eased the rear stairwell door open. Next, he fed the barrel of his weapon through the gap, stepping softly out onto the 6th floor.

"All clear," He said. Girard peered over Veidt, catching a glimpse of the space beyond. It was a cavernous, open-air expanse of gunmetal bulkheads and grille-striated deck. Steel bins lay in loosely arranged patterns, and several equipment trolleys were scattered around the open space. The smell of moldering oil and dust filtered through the air. The sound of gunfire and indistinct shouting was more audible up here; the sounds of battle echoed across the walls of nearby buildings.

"Sweep and clear, go now," He whispered. Delta Squad filed out of the door like armored phantoms, slinking along and dispersing behind overturned bins and the odd shipping crate, weapons trained on the opening of the bay. Girard followed, Navy specialists defaulting into the formation behind him. Out the rear of the bay, the pine forests of Knossos expanded outwards like a rolling, fuzzy sea of green. To their front, more of Perjed's Landing was visible. Massive, track-operated lifts, still scattered with equipment, rested at their floor. Between them, narrow catwalks bridged the gulf of space between the repair bays and the central concourse.

The concourse was an impressive sight. In stark contrast to its auxiliary structures, whose appearance was minimalist and utilitarian, its domed immensity was crenellated with hulking gargoyles, buttresses and full High Gothic finery. It was an old structure, one well-tended to by work crews and maintenance servitors. The catwalks that bridged the gap between the concourse and the repair bays stretched rigidly across the open space, ending in small metal doors, just large enough for a man.

"No threats spotted. Advancing to ingress point." Veidt said.

"Affirmative." Girard whispered. Delta Squad resumed its stealthy approach. This side of the star port, it seemed, was empty.

"Watch your arcs. Rear, eyes on ground level – we're a bit exposed up here." Girard ordered. He panned his massive weapon over the edge of the catwalk, scanning the concrete causeway for signs of the enemy. Again, nothing. Delta Squad moved quickly and efficiently; they arrived the far side in less than a minute's time.

"Locked." Veidt growled.

"Say no more, I'm on it," Johannsen crept up through the squad, shaking his head at these repeated trips up to use his meltagun. He shouldered past his squad mates, priming his weapon and carving a neat O shape around the locking mechanisms.

"Clear." He whispered.

"Open and clear on my mark." Girard voxed, raising his free hand. Veidt's body coiled briefly, muscles bunching in preparation. Girard swept his hand down:

"Mark."

With a slow groan, the access door swung open, spilling a jagged rectangle of light onto the floor inside. With Veidt in the lead, Delta Squad rushed through the breach, weapons swiveling in every direction. Ahead of them, a long narrow corridor receded into gloomy darkness. To either side, rows of doors, identical to the one they entered through, lined the walls. The halls were empty, save for the occasional waste basket and the concrete floor was marked with yellow lines, denoting servitor paths. The glow-globes were, of course, inactive.

"Keep it tight, Delta. Watch your spacing," Girard blinked rapidly, senses adjusting quickly to the darkness. A tomb-like silence suffused the hallway, broken only by the booted footfalls of the Stormtroopers.

"Ma'am, some guidance?" He pressed a finger to his vox bead. She consulted the slim, wallet-sized device she'd had clutched in her hand ever since they had sighted the facility.

"Continue down this hall to the central junction, and then hang a left. Should open up a bit more once we're there," she said, delicate countenance illuminated blue by the screen. Her armsmen brought up the rear behind Girard, weapons trained on the rapidly shrinking access door.

"Thank you - you heard the lady, keep it moving." He replied. Delta Squad took her orders in stride, slinking left around the bend. As the Lieutenant predicted, the hallway became wider at the main junction, allowing them to disperse. Close quarters were indeed their forte, but being crushed together between two potential fields of fire was never a comfortable situation.

"Here, through these doors. There is a secure lift station about a half-mile from our position. The quickest route will be through the outer ring of the concourse, through the civilian boarding sector." Lieutenant Maksachova gestured towards a large set of double doors to their right.

"Right, I'll take point. Stern, Postigo, cover the Lieutenant." Girard crept to the front of the group, testing the door's handle. It was unlocked this time. Girard called back through the squad:

"Johannsen," Girard began.

"Oh, for the Emperor's sake-"

"It's unlocked this time, save you fuel," Girard grinned.

"Ah, you _slay_ me, Segeant," Johannsen rolled his eyes.

"Let's go," Girard swung it wide, rising upright and through the door.

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Girard rushed through the opening, across the small landing and down the carpeted staircase. Below and to their right, the outer causeway of the civilian boarding sector stretched away in both directions, encircling the entire concourse. Overturned vendor stalls and scattered rubble marred the posh accommodations of Perjed's Landing. The majority of the bay windows, which gave a wide view of the runways and private hangars, were shattered, their fragments glittering in the afternoon sun. The sounds of pitched battle were much closer now; stray las-fire zipped past the windows, evidence of the firefights occurring at ground level.

Delta Squad made their way down the stairs, hearts hammering with anticipation. Girard slid up to a corner, peering around to scan for enemies. Nothing. He turned to the Lieutenant, jabbing a finger down the causeway:

_This way?_ He gestured

She paused to consult her dataslate, and then nodded. Girard again took the lead, on a counter-clockwise path around the concourse. After several minutes of padding through the empty spaces, Girard spotted movement ahead, behind a hastily constructed barricade of beverage machines and chairs. His breath caught in his throat as he processed the details: articulating plates of spiked metal, glaring eye slits, and long barbed rifles festooned with wicked blades and barbs.

"Enemy spotted," He hissed, dipping to his left and out of sight. He slunk up to a bit of molding to conceal himself. His squad followed suit, stacking up behind him.

"Targets times eight," He poked his head around the corner. "Correction, times twelve." His men were like crouched statues, awaiting his next order. The Lieutenant had stowed her dataslate, and drawn her stub gun. Girard analyzed the situation before him, his mind crunching through the data at a blistering pace.

As a largely piratical force, the Dark Eldar favored more unconventional methods for waging war. They could never hope stand against a force like the Imperial Guard with their numbers alone; guerilla tactics were always the better choice. For someone with Girard's experience in fighting pirates, situations like the one at Perjed's Landing were when they were at their most vulnerable. The Dark Eldar were adept at lightning fast acquisition, but this newer Kabal would lack the resources necessary to hold onto their assets, especially without auxiliaries to bolster their numbers. Delta Squad would turn the tables, striking hard and fast to drive them from their base of operation.

"This time we hit them with an Eversor maneuver – kill them all," He racked the slide on his bolter, and burst from cover.

The sooty roar of his bolter mixed with the crack of high powered las-fire and the chattering of the armsmen's autoguns. The Eldar galvanized into action, diving away from the fusillade with ethereal grace. One warrior, unprepared for the sudden violence, was tagged in the windpipe by Streeter's grenade launcher, frag grenade punching through its throat and shredding its back apart in a hail of flickering shrapnel. It toppled to the floor, weapon discharging into the ceiling as its operator shuddered out the last of its death throes.

Delta Squad pelted across the open space in a staggered formation, Hotshots zeroing in quickly on the xenos. Girard slid forward into an upturned bench, rolling under a lethal barrage of splinter fire, drawing himself up into a firing position. He dragged the weapon back and forth, letting off a volley of explosive carnage and forcing the lithe Eldar behind what little cover was available.

The Stormtroopers were not content to dig in and whittle their foes down in a protracted firefight, however. Wulfhausen's bulky form, along with Veidt and Johannsen, hurtled over Girard's cover as he expended the last of his magazine. He jettisoned the empty drum, slapped a fresh one into the receiver, and followed suit. Behind him, He could see his Corporals flanking the armsmen, forming into a solid offensive force.

Vaulting over chairs and rubble, they hurtled towards the xeno warriors. The Eversor maneuver mirrored the Imperial assassins by which it derived its name: frenzied, merciless, and absolutely lacking in any form of subtlety. Used by men of Stormtrooper caliber, it lost its frenzy, adopting instead a brutal, crusader-like efficiency. Hotshot fire plowed through the armored plating of the Dark Eldar, tearing great hunks of metal and flesh from their bodies. Their impressive stopping power was proving indispensible – even the undoubtedly sorcerous xeno armor was no match for their might. Girard was instantly grateful for the inordinate amount of time spent maintaining their weaponry.

"Where have your crafty ways gone now, _witches_?" Stern roared over the percussive blast of their weapons. Rippling waves of heat wafted from the barrels of the lasguns, and brass ejected from Girard's weapon at an impressive rate, tinkling across the carpeted floor beside him in a glittering trail. As he led the pack of charging Stormtroopers, he steered the bolter towards the tallest xeno in the bunch. Along its body were the trophies of previous victories: a looping sash with ornamental runes inscribed along its length, gold-trimmed armor spikes and the skulls of humans and xenos alike.

Before his explosive barrage could reach the apparent leader however, the creature slid away, dipping into a split and dodging the hail of bolter fire. Girard's rounds tore through the air above his target, detonating against a far wall. Without a single word uttered on their part, the remaining xeno warriors quit their cover and rushed to meet the charging Stormtroopers. No matter how many times he fought against the Dark Eldar, he would never get used to it. They were impossible to read, never communicating openly – they seemed to work in tandem, without speaking or hesitating, totally unified in their malicious goals. Keeping low, Girard and his avoided the spray of splinter fire directed at them; running in a crouch quickly became exhausting, but in such tight quarters it was just what was needed to close the distance.

"Ah frag, I'm hit!" Veidt grunted over the vox.

"Did it go through?" Girard asked, brow knitting with nerves. Keeping his relentless pace with the rest of the men, he heard the nearby thud of Veidt dropping behind cover to inspect his wound.

"No, thank the Emperor. _Still_ gonna leave a mark though, the bastards," Was the response. Their carapace was far superior to the flak armor distributed to rank and file guardsmen, and the extra protection was paying off.

Girard's vision doubled as a pair of toxic needles thudded into his breastplate, driving him to a knee. A detached sense anger found a way through the jarring impact and he fired a long burst from his bolter despite himself. The sensation was not unlike a direct hit from a sledge hammer – it hurt like hell, sure, but a bone-jarring impact was always better when unaccompanied by heart-stopping poison. They would leave a right nasty bruise. Presently, his bolter issued a hollow click.

It was empty.

Girard glanced away from the enemies, feeling for another drum. They were dangerously close now, silent forms bobbing and weaving athletically around cover to avoid the Stormtroopers' onslaught. The hail of rounds, however, was slowly running out of targets, both from the accumulating dead and from the dexterity of the xenos.

As his hand closed around a fresh drum, he watched as Johannsen received a heavy blow from one of the xenos' weapons. He staggered back, still firing from the hip as his attacker quit its cover. It cleared a pair of beverage dispensers with a single cat-like leap, and brought a spiked fist across Johannsen's faceplate before its feet finally reached the floor. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, helmet dented by the powerful strike. The warrior stuck the landing with acrobatic precision, drawing a wickedly barbed blade from its hip and preparing to pounce on Johannsen.

Girard felt himself fumbling a moment too long and let the magazine drop. He drew his pistol from its holster in a fluid arc, snapping off a single shot towards the foe. The round connected with the bicep of its offending arm, forcing the xeno to release its grip. Without missing a beat, it whipped an equally vicious handgun from its other hip, leveling the weapon at the Girard. A second round exploded its throat, and as it staggered sideways towards cover, two more rounds punched through its abdomen and thigh, sending it crashing silently to the floor.

Another warrior flashed from behind its cover, craning its weapon around the overturned stall to fire. A swift pivot of his arm, followed by the angry crack of another round, and the xeno's head snapped back, gossamer strands of blood arcing from the wound.

Girard appraised the situation in the blink of an eye: Johannsen was down, Veidt was playing it safe, and with the exception of Stern and Wulfhausen, he was at the front of the pack. The rest of the squad was keeping up the momentum while whittling down the remaining Dark Eldar. Emerging from behind cover, the leader of this group of xenos made a beeline for Girard. It tugged off its helmet with a muffled snarl, and hurled it aside with wild abandon. Delta Squad got its first look at the face of their enemy. Prominent cheek bones and a jutting chin framed a pale-skinned, noble face. A neatly braided head of ebony dreadlocks was tied back in a tight scalp-lock, the shaved sides of its head scrawled with flowing tattoos. Beady eyes regarded him with depthless revulsion and hate, its mouth opening to reveal filed, pointed teeth.

It hissed a series of stilted syllables as it stalked toward Girard. The exact translation was lost on him, but one word he heard clearly: Mon'Keigh. It was what the xenos called their human prey, and from what little he knew of their ways, it was a most unflattering title. This one wanted him, personally. From a small pouch on its hip, it produced a fistful of spindly red tubes. It clenched its fist, crunching them into a puff of crimson mist. It brought its armored fist up to its nose, breathing in the mist with a long, shuddering breath.

"Oh, damn it all," Girard hissed under his breath. He holstered his pistol, and drew his combat knife from its sheath. Bullets would do no good here.

The xeno hurled the red pulp to the floor, threw back its head and _howled_. It was a noise that transcended language and race, reverberating off the walls of the concourse and sending terror shearing down the spines of all present to hear it. It slowly brought its head back to face its prey, the howl rising to a hair-raising crescendo. Veins throbbed beneath its porcelain flesh, turned a vile purple tint by the toxin it had inhaled. Vital fluids seeped from the corners of its eyes, blood vessels rupturing from the stress. Girard tightened his grip on his knife, adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream. Time began to slow. The other Stormtroopers, the Lieutenant and her men, even the other xenos – they all melted away, leaving only this gaudily decorated witch.

It hurled itself at Girard, swinging wildly with its weapon. Girard fell in step with the fiend, mirroring its furious and deadly dance. It came as great surprise when he spun inside its guard, driving the air from its lungs as his elbow hammered home. He pivoted on his heel, driving the point of his knife through its neck, earning an astonished gurgle as he mimicked the xenos' martial style to the letter. Despite the horrific wound, its drug fuelled rage pushed through the agony and saw it lift Girard from his bodily and hurl him to the floor. The world spun into a smear of grays and blues, not stopping their wild course until he found the xeno hurl itself upon him.

Before its vile hands could find purchase, Girard tucked his knees into his chest and launched it overhead, giving him the precious time he needed to surge to his feet and round on his foe. It too rolled to its feet, seemingly oblivious to the blade still imbedded in its neck. It aimed to shred Girard's face with a clawed swipe, but his own open-palmed strike stopped the attack at its wrist, deflecting it and opening its side for a flurry of vicious punches. Temporarily stunned by the attack, the xeno regarded its foe with a mix of anger and fear, refusing to believe it was being defeated with such familiar techniques. In that split second, Girard ripped his blade from its throat, reared back and plunged it through the delicate bone structure of its face.

Girard grabbed a fistful of its hair, swiping his knife through its throat and earning a spray of vibrant blood. Its functioning arm clawed pitifully at his chest plate as he flayed its throat apart in a flurry of vicious knife strikes. Girard roared his fury into the twisted wreck of the alien's face, with such power that his vision began to blacken at the edges. The sound echoed eerily across the hangar bays on the far side of the star port. The Dark Eldar shuddered as its facial structure collapsed under the assault. With a final spasm, Girard ripped the knife free, burying his heel in the wreck of its face and driving it back to the floor. The room fell silent.

Chest still heaving from his exertions, Girard stood up to take stock of his surroundings. The firefight had stopped, the Dark Eldar lay dead, and those members of Delta Squad still standing were fixated on their Sergeant. From between Stern and Postigo stood Lieutenant Maksachova, her expression of shock surpassing that of the Stormtroopers. Girard wiped a spattering of blood from his face, and stooped down to collect his bolter. With his rational mind returning by degrees, he glanced around at his comrades, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.

"Area secure."


	8. All along the Concourse

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16.07Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Main Concourse. Western Boarding Sector.

Flight Bays 2-6.

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"Yes Sergeant, nothing but corpses." Corporal Stern confirmed over the vox. Girard hefted his bolter back into place and glanced around the concourse, quickly appraising the situation. As he did so, he readjusted his vox-bead; it had been jostled during the fight.

"How's that hit, Veidt?" He called out. The reply came from behind an upturned bin, several feet away.

"Good to go, Sergeant. Gonna leave a bruise, though," Veidt replied. He stood up into view, still plucking shards of the purple-veined crystals from his carapace. Girard turned to his two corporals.

"Stern, Postigo, check Johannsen," He pointed toward the prone Stormtrooper, who had now begun to stir. As the two corporals moved to rouse their comrade, Girard addressed Lieutenant Maksachova.

"And you, ma'am?" He called. Her head bobbed as she spoke.

"we're all fine, and ready to continue." She replied, eyeing him with an air of renewed interest. Her armsen were busy reloading their weapons. Girard assembled his men, and kept they resumed their journey through the concourse.

"They'll know we're here now, and they'll be withdrawing – up from the lower levels. We must press on, before they escape," Girard explained. Presently, a deep, baritone voice crackled across the vox, laced with static. Girard recognized a nigh-inaudible whine in the background – the telltale sign of a standard Imperial voxcaster.

"All call signs, this is Blackwing Actual, please respond, over," The voice asked, its depth conflicting with the tinny vox frequency, muffled chatter and sporadic las-fire. The Lieutenant placed a hand over her vox bead:

"The 88th Air Assault," she whispered. Her velvety voice responded:

"Blackwing, this is Delta 0-1. What is your situation, over?" She voxed. Girard's respect for her jumped up a notch; instead of identifying herself as the official head of Delta Squad – technically speaking, something well within her rights – she used an auxiliary operational designator.

_Damn well better_, he thought. Still, it was a surprisingly respectful gesture nonetheless.

"Greetings, Delta. We've tasted blood, but we still prevail. Your battlecries were thoroughly motivating," He stated, with no small amount of admiration. Girard cracked a grim smile.

"Affirmative, Blackwing. We are securing assets in The Dome, priority Alpha. Encountering moderate resistance, over." She explained, calling up common terminology used during starport seizure.

"As are we, Delta. The Snob-Garage is clear, and they are blind to the skies," He explained. In Guard jargon, Blackwing had cleared the private hangar bays, often used by Imperial nobility or high-ranking officials. They had silenced the anti-aircraft weapons within the air traffic control towers as well. They worked fast, and a damn sight better than the last attempt at seizure.

"Well done – carry on, Blackwing. Keep this channel open and stand by; we are currently en route to our objective and may require assistance, over."

"Yes, ma'am." He replied.

"Incoming!" Streeter cried, gesturing wildly out the smashed window gallery. Over an adjacent hill, a flurry of dark specks had appeared and was rapidly closing with the concourse.

"Buzzers, three o'clock!" He shouted. A pack of low-altitude craft, xeno Jet Bikes, was on the approach. They covered ground at an alarming pace, engines still inaudible even as they came within firing range. Girard's head whipped from side to side, finally resting on a nearby staff-only door.

"Get that hatch open – and what's Johannsen's situation?" He asked, stepping over a vendor table. Postigo voxed:

"Sergeant, Johannsen's fine, barring a mild concussion. No punctures and nothing broken." Postigo explained as he and Stern hauled their comrade to his feet. Johannsen hefted his melta into position, and made his way to the door.

"I'm good to go, Sergeant." He primed his melta and began carving through the locking mechanism.

"Good. Try and avoid stopping punches with your face from this point forward." Girard said off-hand.

"Sound advice, Sergeant." Johannsen grunted as he delivered a swift kick to the door, smashing it open. Before they could make their way into the opening, splinter fire erupted from further up the concourse.

"Through the door, quickly," Girard shouted, dropping behind an upturned stall. Delta Squad clustered around him; the Lieutenant and her armsmen joined up. He spared a quick glance over the stall. A gaggle of xenos had emerged from around the bend and were aiming to perforate Delta Squad with their toxic splinters.

"Suppressing fire, move it!" He shouted, hefting his bolter up onto the stall to take aim. With a vicious hail of bolter rounds keeping the spiny xenos behind cover, his men quit their cover in a flash, spraying fire down the concourse as they filed through the doorway. Behind them, an armor-piercing krak missile corkscrewed up from the tarmac, courtesy of the 88th Air Assault. It connected with one of the Buzzers, sending the shredded wreckage crashing into another jet bike and engulfing them in a tangled mass of metal and flame. As the two craft spun wildly out of control, their path was headed straight for Delta Squad.

Veidt, the last man in the formation, saw the two craft hurtling through the air towards them and slammed the door behind them. A bone rattling crash rippled through the structure, sending a jagged spike of shrapnel through the security door. It ground through the door with a metallic shriek, stopping scant inches from Veidt's throat. He let out a shout and leapt back, clutching at his neck.

"Now that was a little fraggin' close," he cried. Girard called over his shoulder as he scanned the dim hallway, which terminated in a blind right turn some thirty feet away.

"Everyone alright?" He asked. A flurry of positive responses crackled across the vox.

"This will take us slightly off-course, but we can still make good time if we hurry," The Lieutenant advised, face illuminated by her device's screen.

"We must follow this hall to the next main junction," She flicked her finger across the screen, and Girard recognized the chime of an auspex application booting up.

"I'm seeing some activity nearby," She cautioned. Girard took point, and waved his men forward.

"Follow me," He breathed, setting off down the hall. As he rounded the corner, jagged shadows spilled along the next turn – more xenos were on their way. He put up a fist to signal a stop, and then plucked a pair of frag grenades the pouches on his webbing. He clasped the two explosives in a single, large gloved hand.

"Streeter, be ready to put a round around that corner as soon as I toss these," he whispered. As the clattering of alien boots grew louder, he thumbed the activation runes simultaneously. He hurled them at the right wall, sending them bouncing around the corner. Streeter's grenade launcher breathlessly fired a single frag round.

The blasts rattled the chests of everyone nearby, and burst the glow globes on the ceiling in a shower of sparks. Agonized screeches drifted around the corner, followed by a fine spray of brackish blood. Delta Squad was already on the move, bursting around the corner and producing a hail of las-fire.

The floor was littered with tangled bodies, armor spines catching with one another as they squirmed out their death throes. Many xenos still survived, and had taken cover in the corridor. It was a cramped and uncomfortable situation, which was the Stormtroopers' specialty.

Girard slammed into the right wall, behind a squat utility cart. A jerky melody of metallic pings echoed through the cart as splinter rounds punched into the opposite side. Behind him, his men found similar cover, and began exchanging fire with the xenos. Johannsen brought up the rear, beside Wulfhausen and the armsmen. On the opposite wall, lying prone behind a filing cabinet was the Lieutenant, no more than ten feet away. Her weapon coughed softly, rounds tearing chunks of plascrete from the walls and punching bloody chunks from the enemy.

"Streeter, do what you do best," Girard shouted. A pair of grenades arced overhead, producing an unexpected result. Instead of taking cover, this squad of xenos instead rushed forward as the grenades bounced past; the grenades detonated angrily behind them, shredding a single straggler into a bloody mess. A fresh burst of adrenaline dumped into Girard's bloodstream, jump-starting his heartbeat and lowering a red veil across his senses.

"Blades out, men – tear these witches apart," he snarled, depositing his bolter on the floor beside him and drawing his combat knife. Shrill battlecries erupted from the wicked masks of the xeno warriors, their blades flickering in the dim-lit corridor as they charged.

Girard spun in place, pulling into a low crouch. He surged to his feet, delivering a thunderous drop kick to the utility cart; it sailed through the air, propelled by Girard's prodigious muscle power. The cart slammed into the chest of the nearest xeno, pitching it backwards onto the floor. He was already moving as the xeno fell, leaping over the cart and delivering a savage curb-stomp to its face plate. Bones and tissue collapsed beneath his boot with a sickening crunch.

The Lieutenant joined Girard in battle, holstering her weapon and pelting down the cramped hallway. With a cat-like leap, she met the next xeno with a crippling double knee-strike to its chin, dropping into a crouch as her foe tumbled backwards. Her athletic frame galvanized into action as another warrior leapt over its fallen comrade. Wielding its rifle like a club, it brought the stock of the weapon down in a brutal arc; she offered up her right forearm to soften the blow.

Girard watched the blow land with no small amount surprise – such a hit should have crippled her arm, smashing bones through flesh and putting her out of the fight. Instead, the splinter rifle bent along the point of impact, as though it had struck a rockcrete pillar instead. In the split second the xeno took to stare in astonishment, the Lieutenant slapped the rifle away and collapsed its ribcage with a swift palm strike. The xeno doubled over, allowing her a moment to pivot, and drive her heel into its neck, slamming it into the floor where it lay still.

Postigo and Wulfhausen shouldered through the melee, hacking and slashing at the taller xeno warriors with their knives. Postigo dodged one warrior as it sought to disembowel him with its bayonet, snaked his arm around its trigger hand. He hammered the point of his blade through its helmet repeatedly, snarling with animalistic fury and dragging it to the floor. As he delivered the killing blow, however, a spiked alien boot lashed out above him, driving the point into his guts. The air whooshed from his lungs and he doubled over, grasping away with his free arm in an attempt to flee the punishment. He looked up to see another spike-clad abomination descending upon him, blade hurtling through the air towards him. He swung wide to parry the blow, deflecting the blade away from his face but opening a ragged gash in his arm as it changed course. A growl emerged from the pit of his stomach, born of rage rather than of pain. He aimed a vicious kick at the alien's groin, but succeeded in only scuffing the mirror sheen on its thigh plate.

No one in Delta Squad expected to leave this engagement unscathed, especially when the xenos opted for hand to hand combat. That was the first rule that their close quarters combat instructors had impressed upon them in the Schola Progenium: In a knife fight, you _will_ get cut.

Wulfhausen absorbed a wild swing from his opponent's rifle, rolling his shoulder with the tremendous impact. He grabbed its closest arm and drove his fist into its elbow, snapping it backwards. Then, grabbing it by the neck and groin, he bellowed as he hurled it bodily into its fellows, sending them to the floor in a tangle of limbs. He saw Postigo's plight, and rushed to his aid. He aimed a swift dropkick to the alien's guts, wrenching its grip away from Postigo. As the xeno staggered to its feet, Wulfhausen speared it into the wall. He flinched as its head suddenly exploded, smoke drifting from the ruins of its mask. He spared a moment to glance about, spying Streeter in the rear, las-pistol in hand. He gave him a quick nod before dropping the dead alien and hauling Postigo to his feet.

Bringing up the rear, Streeter continued to fire over the swirling melee, carefully placing his shots to avoid hitting his comrades. One such round sliced past Girard as he met yet another Dark Eldar warrior, this one unfettered by its spined helmet. He executed a lightning parry with his knife as his enemy's blade sang towards his neck, following up with a vicious swing at its head. A gauntleted hand went up to block the strike, but to no avail. The tips of its fingers were neatly separated from its hand as Girard's powerful muscles powered through. He ripped the xeno's jaw from its skull in a welter of blood, the vital fluids sluicing down its front.

The alien sagged to its knees and Girard kicked out as it fell. The toe of his boot connected with the now exposed roof of the xeno's mouth, crunching through its fragile bone structure and puncturing its brain. It was dead before it hit the floor. Once again, silence settled on Girard and his men. He squinted through the miasma of battle – nothing but mangled bodies and war-torn hallway beyond.

"All clear," someone shouted. From behind him, he heard a strangled gurgle as one of his men finished off a crippled Dark Eldar. The Lieutenant appeared beside him, staring into the glowing rectangle of her dataslate.

"We have wounded," Stern shouted through the haze. He was crouched beside Wulfhausen, who was busy clamping a medi-pack to Postigo's arm. The Corporal sat still, glowering at the damaged flesh. His lip curled as the bio-foam dispersed, filling the gap left by the wound and preventing infection. Having never used it himself, Girard had only heard stories of the agony that bio-foam caused. Men in his Drop Troop unit had likened it to a swarm of flaming insects burrowing into their flesh and cauterizing the wound.

"Don't worry about it, Sergeant, I can still move it," he grunted, offering up his undamaged arm and allowing Stern to pull him to his feet.

"Sergeant. If we take a left at the next junction, we may pass through the Administratum office block and onto the data vault access point." The Lieutenant called.

"Let's keep moving, then." He sheathed his blade, and then patted his forearm.

"Although, perhaps you could just claw your way through the floor, clear down to the data vault itself." He pointed at her arm. The ghost of a smirk flickered across her features, before she explained:

"My bone and muscle structure is synthetic," she said.

"You don't say?" Girard scoffed. He retrieved his bolter. The armsmen and the rest of Delta squad had gathered 'round.

"My bones are reinforced with starship-grade adamantium, and my muscles are constructed of microfibral synth-tissues. All praises to the Omnissiah, as they say." This time, a smirk cemented itself on her noble countenance as they continued down the hall, stepping over the mangled corpses of the Dark Eldar.

"Throne's Mercy, ma'am," Stern breathed. Veidt, for once, was at a loss for words and Johannsen was too busy enduring his concussion to make any snide remarks. The Lieutenant shook her head:

"I may be able to pop your skull like a Tyranid spore, but I still have nerve endings. That swing was quite painful." She admitted, clenching and unclenching her fingers.

"Why not remove those, as well? You've come this far," Wulfhausen asked.

"She'd be more like the Astartes than a normal human," Veidt muttered. She explained:

"Suffering is good for the soul, Lance Corporal. Also, that procedure tends to render one's pleasure centers useless as well. I rather like those the way they are," She quickened her pace, moving up beside Girard at the front of the pack. After taking a moment to consider the idea, the Stormtroopers murmured their agreement amongst themselves.

-][-

"Turn here," Lieutenant Maksachova pointed down another hallway to her right. Girard complied, and his men followed suit. They snaked through the vast interior of the concourse, past darkened administratum offices and storage cells, and trudging through parchments like autumn leaves. At last, they rounded the final turn, and the Lieutenant put up a hand.

"This will shall bring us back to the boarding lobbies – to the left lies the lift necessary to take us to the vault. Sergeant, if you'd please," she waved Girard over to look at her dataslate. The auspex program filled the screen, tiny oscillations of energy visible as pulsating lines of light. She pointed to a pair of unusual patterns:

"These signatures – have you ever seen their like?" She stared at Girard, waiting for an answer. He studied the image for a moment, memories emerging unbidden:

_Pence's body slid apart in a gruesome diagonal slice, arm dropping free and slapping the rainy earth. Girard dropped his auspex, only tiny flickers of readings visible on the lurid green screen. He heard the screams of alarm and of the dying, and gaudy plumage that topped the grinning helmet visors of his enemies, and the childish glee they took in slaughtering his brothers in arms and-_

"Incubi," He blurted out his answer. "Your auspex is picking up their power weapons – they're usually bodyguards or mercenaries their commanders employ. There are only two of them, but we need to take them down quickly," He explained.

"Naturally," the Lieutenant nodded. "What do you advise?" She asked. Girard glanced to the end of the hall.

"We have guns, they don't – just fraggin' shoot 'em before they get close." He said.

"Fair enough, Sergeant. Lead on," She gestured toward the door.

"Squad, prepare for a left-arc strafe, on my mark." He crouched beside the door, with his men stacking up behind him. Girard nudged the door open soundlessly with his shoulder.

Delta Squad burst from the door, weapons ablaze as they entered the room. But the elite warriors were ready, centuries of brutally enforced battle instincts kept them safe from the fusillade. The right-most Incubi slid into a low split, pressing its head into its upper thigh before twirling along the floor with supernatural grace towards the humans.

"Take them down!" Girard roared, leaning his shoulder in and opening up full-bore with his bolter. The miniature explosives stitched a line along the wall and past the second Incubi warrior, while the rest of his squad divided their fire evenly among their foe.

Girard's target pushed itself into the air, pirouetting gracefully before dropping beside the fiery barrel of the boltgun. It swung a glistening, glaive-like weapon, liberating the last half-foot of the weapon with a tortured metallic shriek. With a careless flick of its wrist, it brought the polearm around its torso, driving the blunt end across Girard's ribs.

The power behind the strike punched Girard sideways, doubling his vision for a moment before it reversed the weapon and jabbed downward, pinning his weapon to the floor. Terrific pain exploded through his side and into his chest; he felt as though the bones of his shoulder were on the verge of snapping. Ingrained reflexes deflected a downward elbow strike, and he grasped the offending limb, powerful muscles slowing the power-armored limb before snapping it sideways by pulling it into the crook of his elbow. The xeno howled in pain, and Girard brought his pistol up to its chin, obliterating its face in an explosion of bone and armor plating.

The remaining Incubi twirled its glaive in a sweeping arc, warding off its enemies, glancing hits simply ricocheting off its armor. A quiet thump brought the combat to a close. The Incubi's weapon spun away as it lurched under a sudden impact; its torso burst in a gory pulp as a krak grenade, courtesy of Streeter, found its mark. Its armored legs, still smoking from the shaped charge, tumbled backwards. Girard straightened himself up from the corpse of the incubus, sharing a knowing glance with Postigo as he dropped out of his fighting stance.

"Fraggin' hell," he spat, kicking at the shorn upper receiver of the useless Nostra Pattern Boltgun.

"What's our status?" He called, massaging his shoulder.

"No injuries from Delta, Sergeant. The armsmen and the Lieutenant are good to go, as well." Corporal Stern responded, after getting a thumbs-up from the Navy specialists.

"Veidt, Wulfhausen, keep your eyes on our rear arc," Girard paused, turning to the armsmen.

"Well done, gents – keep pace and we'll make proper warriors of you yet," He smirked. Petty Officer Vald stepped forward, speaking for the first time:

"Well I can speak for both of us when I say let them come," He racked the slide on his autogun. His compatriot nodded in agreement. Approving laughter rippled through the squad.

"Easy there, killer." Girard said, scratching at his chin. He eyed the armsman's dump pouch, already filled with several magazines – he had an idea.

"Petty Officer, I'm going to need your dump pouch – can you make do without it?" He motioned to Streeter.

"I suppose I can manage, yes - why?" he asked, unbuckling the pouch and tossing it to him. Girard snatched it out of the air. He then gestured to the bodies of the Incubi:

"The Lieutenant was right, these freaks are going to ducking out as soon as they figure out there's no hope of holding this starport. They'll be leaving the vaults, and heading back for the lift elevators." He began tugging the rest of his frag grenades from his bandolier and stuffing them into the pouch.

"Streeter, how are you doing on ammo?" He asked.

"I have two frag rounds left, and another full chamber of krak rounds," He said slowly, counting out his remaining grenades.

"I'll need your frag rounds. Make your shots count; these Incubi use a kind of streamlined power armor – nothing like Astartes ceramite, but heavier than the last pack or two we've faced. Also, nice shooting – keep that up."

"Aye, Sergeant." He nodded, smiling despite himself, and holding the bandolier out.

"Like I was saying, they'll be heading our way, and in force – this is the only elevator with access to that bottom level, so they'll be waiting for us there. They won't be expecting _this_:" he accepted the grenades from Streeter and stuffed them into the bad, rolling it tight with a single pin exposed through the opening.

"Clever," Petty Officer Alno smirked, dropping an empty magazine into his own dump pouch.

"Of course it's clever, it was _my _idea. Right then, let's move out. Lieutenant, if you would, please?" He gestured to the imposing, reinforced doors set into the end of the concourse. She drew a slender device from her tool belt, and made her way to the doors. Now that his primary weapon was out of commission, Girard drew his pistol. As they grouped up at the lift doors, the Lieutenant brought her device across a security panel set into the wall. It hummed, glowed from a small light along its top center, and a bolt of electricity leapt forward, frying the panel. Behind the doors, a cheerful _ding_ sounded, and they heaved open, heavy gears pulling back reinforced locks. She turned to the men of Delta Squad, gesturing to the gritty interior of the lift shaft.

"All aboard."


	9. Communion

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.

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16.49Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Main Concourse. Northern Boarding Sector.

Secure Access Lift.

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Girard and his men filed silently into the massive lift car. They dispersed behind long-abandoned equipment crates and electro-trollies, taking up well-concealed firing positions. The Lieutenant jabbed at a control panel jutting from the railing of the car before dropping behind her own cover.

Harsh, yellow claxons snapped on as the lift rumbled to life. With the grinding of grease-choked gears, it began its shuddering descent. Rockcrete foundations quickly gave way to cave-in mesh and dirt encrusted girders as it sank into the depths of Knossos. White stenciled numbers ground past in ascending order as the lift continued. Girard's men were ready for battle, but he gradually became aware they were observing him. Ever since his first bout with the Dark Eldar, he had drawn their uneasy gaze.

"Impressive work, taking down that incubus, Sergeant – but you didn't learn that kind of technique in the 'Guard, did you?" Wulfhausen remarked. He gave voice to the curiosity they were all experiencing.

"Yeah, _about that_," Veidt chimed in,

"Need to know basis, gents, you know how it goes," Girard glanced briefly glanced at Postigo, who simply smiled and shook his head as the rest of the men grumbled among themselves.

Presently, a fresh whining of gears signaled the end of the lift's journey. Delta Squad shifted in their positions, ready for whatever lay on the other side of the doors. The car's chime sounded again, and the doors opened to reveal a floodlit receiving chamber. Before the doors had opened scarcely a foot, Girard wrenched the exposed pin on the improvised bomb-pack, and hurled it through the gap.

The phalanx of warriors on the other side couldn't have been more shocked. There was no time to leap away as the pack detonated in mid-air; a flurry of explosions burst in a ruddy gout of dirt and force. Shrapnel flickered like a galaxy, slicing through the non-power armored bodies of the warriors, effectively halving their numbers.

"Open fire," He barked, squeezing the trigger of his pistol. The rest of Delta Squad followed suit, saturating the area in las-fire.

"Advance, cut them down!" Girard swept his arm forward, spinning from behind his cover and leading his men in a lightning advance out of the lift car. The Dark Eldar were still in a state of shock, seeing their comrades shredded by the unexpected blast and having their escape violently foiled. They were cut down with ease. Down here, in the cramped tunnels and emergency bunkers, the Stormtroopers were in their element.

As the last xeno collapsed to the floor, riddled with smoking las-burns, the Stormtroopers took stock of their surroundings. The shaft opened into a rough-hewn chamber, furnished with a gunmetal deck. Fiber optic cables snaked in away various directions, occasionally collecting like tributaries to a stack of dormant equipment. At the front of the chamber stood a set of blast doors, thirty feet in height and adorned with a vast, black Aquila. Floodlights spaced around sloping ceiling cast a sickly yellow glow around the empty space.

"What next?" Girard had finished scanning the room for fresh targets, and now turned to the Lieutenant. She padded softly over to the blast doors, and began tapping at a control panel. As gears ground to life, she consulted her dataslate.

"This way. Nothing on the auspex, though You think that was all of them? " She furrowed her eyebrows. Girard shook his head.

"It looked like they were trying to escape, but I'm willing to bet their leaders sent them our way to slow us down. They're getting desperate. The data vault you seek is likely where they've concentrated the remainder of their warriors." he said, kicking at a twitching, gauntleted hand.

"Concerning the data vault, I would like to caution you, Sergeant," Lieutenant Maksachova dipped into a crouch as the rest of Delta Squad stacked up on either side of the opening doors. A vast, tubular hallway yawned open before them, receding into gloomy blackness. They surged forward, darting around dusty cogigator banks and utility haulers on their way to the data vault.

"The vault is packed with extremely sensitive equipment that I must access, for our work here to be considered a success. Let us curb our destructive tendencies within, shall we?" She purred.

"We'll do our best, ma'am," Girard complied. They resumed their journey through the silent halls of Sub-Level 26D. A strange, conspiratorial ambiance filled the gloomy tunnels. Girard, for one, felt a distinct foreboding sensation as they passed by stacks of old machinery and surveillance equipment, and glanced in open portals to various rooms set into the sides of the tunnel. Each crevasse, each nook and cranny could hold a potential ambush; conversation was non-existent as Delta Squad prowled their subterranean environment in silence. Girard took this opportunity to address his men over the vox:

"Watch your spacing around those containers; we're closing in on them now, and they'll be playing dirty."

"Compared to what, exactly?" Veidt sneered, pointing to Postigo, then to Johannsen.

"A few slices and a bump on the head – we've been lucky so far." Girard retorted.

"Lucky to have a xeno-ninja on our side, perhaps," Johannsen murmured, sparing a glance at his Sergeant.

"These fiends aren't stupid. We're close to unraveling their schemes here, and they're shifting their priorities. On any other day, they'd just as soon capture us and we'd just be another pack of meat-puppets to them. But now, knocking on their front door like this? The gloves are coming off." Girard explained. The Stormtroopers continued through dusty tunnels, drill-striations still visible on exposed sections of wall. Soon, the Lieutenant tapped at Girard's shoulder:

"There, through those doors is the vault" Lieutenant Maksachova pointed straight ahead as their tunnel forked, each one twisting up and away. Ahead of them, a small set of reinforced doors was set into the space between the forking tunnels.

"The holo-projection was a bit deceiving, was it not?" Girard muttered.

"Deep-imaging scanners aboard the Justicar had difficulty piercing the signal-retardant minerals layered over the foundation; we were never in possession of a complete picture." She explained. Girard shrugged.

"All praises to the Omnissiah," he muttered. Presently, the doors opened, spilling a long rectangle of light across the cable-striated floor. Something was wrong. Girard sensed, rather than saw, a flash of movement behind him.

"Contact rear!" he shouted, just in time to see the muzzle flashes of alien weaponry erupt from behind them. Without a moment's hesitation, Delta Squad leapt for cover, splinter fire hammering into the equipment around them. The clever, guerilla-like fighters remotely opened the vault doors, distracting the Stormtroopers with a simple light source.

"Clever little bastards, aren't they?" Wulfhausen shouted over the din of gunfire.

Telltale spikes and red eye slits gave away the Dark Eldar's position; they had emerged from one of the aforementioned doorways in the tunnel. Girard cursed himself for not performing a Frag and Cleanse maneuver on each room. A lurching, metallic whoosh rose from somewhere in the shadows; Girard's blood froze:

"Hit the deck!" He cried, dragging the Lieutenant down beside him as the sound terminated in an otherworldly screech. Behind them, her armsmen screamed as a bolt of glistening blackness slammed into their cover, detonating with a fluid blast. The explosion from the DarkLance, an anti-matter weapon used by the Dark Eldar, evaporated their cover, leaving a liquid-like splash of emptiness where they had crouched moments before; it was as though the affected area ceased to exist. Before any more rounds could reach them, they scrambled clear, weapons chattering as they fled the punishment of the heavy weapon.

"Concentrate fire on the Blaster," He snarled, emptying his magazine across a pair of warriors. He dipped behind an impromptu barricade of crates and comms equipment. After slapping in a fresh magazine, he glanced over to the Lieutenant.

"Vald, Alno! Cover me – I've got this one," She shouted over the din of gunfire. She reached down and whipped her plasma pistol from its holster. Her men provided suppressing fire as she thumbed an activation rune above the trigger guard, and the weapon thrummed to life. In the darkness of the tunnel, he could still see her augmetic irises dilating in their shutter-like fashion.

"Target acquired," she whispered. The armsmen ducked behind cover again. She rose up, leveling the weapon at her enemies and squeezing the trigger. The area around her flared with an actinic blue flash as a bolt of pure energy burst from the pistol, pelting downrange and vaporizing the top half of the Lance-wielding warrior. The tremendous payload of the plasma pistol ensured that its weapon was destroyed as well – the ground shook, staggering the combatants and shaking a fine dust from the ceiling as the dark matter weapon annihilated everything within a twenty foot radius. A curious crater was left behind, as though a massive hand had simply scooped out the floor around the explosion, bisecting crates and cables as it dug.

"With all due respect, ma'am, you took your sweet fraggin' time lugging that thing out," Veidt shouted over his weapon's discharge. A lucky shot spun a warrior from its feet.

"As much as it pains me to say this, I agree with Veidt," Girard added.

"Would they not have devised a way to neutralize its effectiveness if I'd used it earlier?" She asked, carefully placing her shots.

"Just think of this as my trump card," She continued. The head disappeared from one warrior as a plasma bolt collided, bursting in a roiling ball of light. The strategy appeared to be working. Gradually, the Dark Eldar began to give ground, the addition of the lethal pistol compounding the shock at the explosion of the Dark Lance. The firefight was over shortly after. The sheer volume of fire from the Stormtroopers was sufficient to silence the remaining xeno pirates.

"Let's secure our objective before more decide to show up, and with bigger toys," Girard ordered. He waited on his men to rise, making a quick mental headcount. Postigo and Johannsen hadn't gotten up yet.

"Veidt, Johannsen? Start looking for them, quickly." He sighed. His men spread out in a loose line and began to sweep the area, weapons still trained on the rear tunnel. The armsmen were thorough in their attentions: the occasional gunshot echoed through the tunnel as they finished off the remaining xenos. After a moment, Stern called out:

"Sergeant, I've found Postigo. He's wounded." He hauled the other Corporal to his feet. A trio of purple spines protruded from his previously wounded arm. Streeter stepped in from nearby to yank the venomous rounds out of his Corporal's arm. He didn't even flinch.

"That's no good," Stern observed the forcible removal.

"What's wrong?" Girard asked.

"Streeter just removed three splinters from Postigo here, and he didn't make a peep. Must not be lethal," He said. Girard frowned.

"Nerve damage – you see, Veidt? With more warning, they'd have switched back to more toxic rounds. They didn't want to kill us unless they had to, just drug us up and have their way with us. They obviously didn't know that the Imperial Guard's Finest aren't interested in xeno boy-loving," Girard announced, continuing his search for Johannsen. Chuckles echoed through the empty tunnel.

"I've found Johannsen." Streeter shouted, dragging the man up. He looked around, eyes beginning to glaze over with exhaustion – a symptom of his concussion.

"I'll be fine if I keep moving, Sergeant." He grunted.

"Good, because that's what we're doing. Move out," Girard said.

Delta Squad formed a perimeter around the two wounded Stormtroopers, arms draped over one another's shoulders for support, as they made their way down the hall and into the vault.

The walls of the long, rectangular vault receded into the far distance, easily more than two hundred feet in length. White paneling on the floor was broken up by the occasional missing tile, out of which sprouted clusters of cabling, snaking up into the colossal data stacks that reached some forty feet up to the room's ceiling. At odd intervals, dark-paneled apparatus marred the austere accommodations – xeno hardware.

"Can't say I've seen anything like _this_ before." Stern mused, panning his weapon across grated catwalks high above them. The Lieutenant shouldered past the vigilant Corporal, stopping beside a small terminal further down on a server stack. She tugged off her glove, and rolled a sleeve up to her elbow, revealing toned, fair skin.

"Communing with the resident AI spirit will take several moments – please, ensure my safety." She spoke as she readied herself for the interfacing procedure. Her armsmen took their places at her side, scanning the empty room.

"You can count on us, ma'am," Girard nodded to the Lieutenant. He watched as, with a twist of her fingers, she plucked open a pair of interfacing studs implanted on her forearm, just below the crook of her elbow. Sliding a wire from the terminal into the open studs, her eyes dilated, replacing the frosty orbs with solid blackness.

"Assume overwatch positions on the doorway. Stern, Wulfhausen, keep eyes on those catwalks" He said, listening for his men shuffling to comply. He kept his eyes on the Lieutenant; aside from the soft rise and fall of her chest, her body was motionless. After a moment's hesitation, he whipped his hand in front of her face.

Nothing. Not even a flinch. Petty officer Vald turned to Girard.

"She can't see you," He said.

"You don't say"? Girard said dryly. He let his irritated stare linger on him for a few extra moments.

"A bit unnerving, isn't it? Being completely defenseless like that? Can't say I envy her." It was Alno this time. Girard nodded in agreement.

"Agreed. How long does this kind of thing usually take?" He asked. Alno lifted his visor to scratch thoughtfully at a well-maintained mustache.

"Hard to say. I'd wager it depends on the hardware she… _communes_ with, eh?" he said.

"Makes sense." Girard said. Between the two sailors, Alno seemed the more personable.

Girard cast his gaze around the vault. The combined noise of the data stacks filled the space with a soothing hum. As he exhaled, small gouts of steam issued forth. He noticed for the first time that the room was actually quite cold. He blamed the lapse of attention to his adrenaline high. As the jittery sensation began to dissipate, he could feel exhaustion creeping into his muscles. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, glancing back to his men.

"How's it look out there? See anything?" He asked.

"Not a damn thing – this place is a tomb, Sergeant," Postigo said, keeping his damaged arm close at his side.

"Outstanding. I was expecting heavier resistance." Girard replied. He returned his attention to the Lieutenant, who hadn't moved an inch. His frowned as he spied blood seeping from her left nostril. The ruby stream pooled along her lip, resting precariously as long as she remained still. Her blackened eyes were, Girard wasn't afraid to admit, more than a little unnerving.

With a jolt, the Lieutenant stepped back from the terminal, yanking the wires from her arm. She wrinkled her nose, before wiping away the blood.

"I have what I need," She pointed to the sweeping, ebony devices squatting around the floor. "Those must be destroyed." Johannsen pushed himself to his feet and primed his melta.

"Sergeant, if I may?" He asked. Girard nodded. Johannsen grinned, trudging over to the nearest device.

"When he's finished, we'll double back to the lift. Watch your corners this time," Girard ordered.

-][-

The doors to the concourse ground open and Delta Squad emerged from the tunnels beneath Perjed's Landing. As they started down the hallway, the shriek of Valkyrie engines could be heard across the tarmac. Looking to their right, Delta Squad glimpsed the blocky, ugly, oh-so-welcome sights silhouetted against the pre-dusk sun. Their prop-wash pushed spirals through the smoking wreckage of the jetbikes. The Lieutenant picked up her pace, placing a hand to her vox-bead:

"Overlord, this is Wayward Daughter – the relic has been reclaimed. Will remain on station and await further assignment, over." She slid her finger along the side of the device, and spoke again:

"Blackwing Actual, this is Delta 01, are you still with us, over?" She asked. The reply came quickly:

"Affirmative, Delta. We are three yards down-spin from your location; we will speak again soon, over," It said. The Lieutenant resumed her place beside Girard, leading the pack.

"Time to meet our comrades in arms," She wiggled her eyebrows. The tan and olive uniforms of the Valparaiso Air Assault troopers became visible from 'round the bend. At the head of the squad was a giant of a man, built of slab-like muscle and ebony flesh. A well-oiled, Number 98 Lucius Pattern Lasgun hung from his shoulder, and his lower fatigues were spattered with Dark Eldar blood.

"Greetings, Delta. I am Master Sergeant Kindy of the Valparaiso 88th Air Assault Battalion. The star port is secure, and cleared for the landing operation." He said. His words tolled out like rolling thunder. He swept off his cover and dabbed the beading sweat from his bald head, then held out a hand in greeting. The Lieutenant took a step back, leaving Girard to greet the man:

"Sergeant Girard Burkhalter, Elysian 33rd. We appreciate you and your men keeping those xenos off our backs, Master Sergeant," He said boldly, meeting his grasp at mid-forearm, in a typical Valparaiso greeting. He had been studying the habits of the other regiments while aboard the Justicar. If this monstrously muscled creature was surprised at his familiarity with his society's customs, he did not show it.

"Well met," He responded coolly. The gathered guardsmen were momentarily drawn to the far window as the whine of the Valkyries' Vulture escorts rose to a piercing wail, the blocky fighters banking up and away.

"It appears you have left us little in the way of a mop-up. The cleanup crews have their work cut out for them," he cracked a pearly grin, casting a quick glance around. The scattered piles of Dark Eldar corpses bore testament to Delta Squad's effectiveness.

"They have to earn their pay somehow." Girard said simply, looking beyond the hulking man at his subordinates. The men were almost exclusively fixated on a point just behind him – the Lieutenant. Their stern faces couldn't hide their interest – seeing a woman while on a forward deployment like this was obviously a rare occurrence for them.

"Ah, this is true." He chuckled. "Well Sergeant, the bulk landers are on their way. We have our orders, and ah…" He spared a glance at the Lieutenant and her men, "…I'm sure you have your own." he concluded. The Lieutenant stepped forward.

"Carry on, Master Sergeant." She purred. He took a step back, and turned to address his men. Girard stepped up beside the Lieutenant, gesturing to the tarmac:

"Shall we?"

-][-

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17.30Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Main Concourse. Landing Strip Alpha.

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A swarm of contrail had appeared in the fiery sunset – as Master Sergeant Kindy had said, the landing operation had already begun in earnest. Delta Squad occupied a space of tarmac, underneath a massive buttressed corner of the concourse. Girard stood apart from his men, who were now engaged in exhilarated, post-mission chatter with Alno. His fellow armsman Vald remained silent. Postigo and Johannsen were holding up admirably, despite their injuries. Beside him, Lieutenant Maksachova explained to him what was in store for them in the coming hours.

She pointed towards a fighter-shrouded formation of Valkyrie transports. She explained that these carried the majority of the high command and logistics officers, all of whom would be anxious to speak with Delta Squad.

"Expect a full debriefing this evening, Sergeant Burkhalter – from your commanders and from mine." She added.

"And what of my men? They'll need medical attention soon," Girard asked. Stormtroopers were a tough lot, but like all soldiers, they were only as good as the support they received.

"I will arrange for a priority visit to the Officio Medicae, once they have established an area of operation." She assured him.

"That would be much appreciated," He nodded.

Girard and the Lieutenant looked out across the tarmac of Perjed's Landing, watching the lights of the vast landing craft rumble through the gathering darkness. He and his men had secured a planet-wide comms facility, and retrieved vital intelligence from the bowels of a xeno-infested star port, all before sundown.

Not a bad start.


	10. Planetfall: Part I

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21.26Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Central Concourse. Floor 26. Executive Wing: Concilium Block.

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When it rained on Knossos, it poured. The thunderheads glimpsed atop the Vidal Mountain Range drifted south, and were now punishing Perjed's Landing with a torrential downpour. The landing operation continued, of course. It would continue to do so long into the night, and over the next several days. The buzz of activity had a soothing effect on Sergeant Burkhalter, who sat on a low bench in the upper floors of the concourse-turned-headquarters, awaiting his debriefing. With the danger long past, he had removed his armor plating and utility blouse, letting the skin of his arms breathe in the climate-controlled splendor of the upper concourse.

Through rain-slick windows, he watched as enormous gunmetal vessels, long and angular, eased themselves down onto the tarmac and auxiliary landing strips like bloated insects. Landing lights and signal globes bobbed and danced in swirling patterns, occasionally illuminating a nearby hangar or equipment stack. In the air along the edges of the star port, a constant patrol of vultures kept the area secure against enemy incursion. The floodlights of bulk-haulers and Imperial armor formed sweeping rivers of light along the ground, creating glistening patterns on the rainy pavement. Every now and again, a knot of Munitorum personnel could be seen darting through the enormous vehicles.

_Thank the Emperor I'm not out there_, Girard thought.

A constant stream of Munitorum, Administratum, and Ministorum staff raced through the choked corridor in which he sat, which was clearly not designed for such a high volume of foot traffic. Each one had some important meeting or such to attend, some pressing issue that required their immediate attention. Girard simply let it wash over him, allowing his eyes to drift out of focus as he stared out the blurry window pane.

Lt. Maksachova appeared on the bench cushion beside him; she had left several minutes ago to 'find sustenance' as she put it. In one hand was a steaming cup of Recaf, which she sipped gingerly while tossing a small bag at his chest. Lightning reflexes clutched the bag against him, and he unfastened the main flap. Peering inside, his eyes widened:

"And where did you manage to find this?" He whispered, producing an amber bottle of a local alcoholic beverage.

"Noticed it in a desk drawer down the hall." She explained, regarding the feat with marked disinterest. She glanced at Girard, and added:

"I could smell it." She tapped her nose. Next, he drew two pouches of synth-et rations, grimacing at the label:

Grox Mutton with Synthetic Cheese Sauce.

"Now those, I just pinched from a supply crate. I'm hungry enough to eat, well, whatever passes for large game on this world." She said, accepting a pouch from him.

"You had to pick the greasiest, most bowel-punishing flavor, didn't you?" He rolled his eyes as he tore the packaging open with his teeth.

"You're saying there are choices other than 'greasy or 'extra greasy'? " She snorted. She watched Girard as he held the bag gingerly by the corners while the heating agent within warmed the bag upon contact with the air. Girard shook the bag, making sure every part cooked. The motion wafted the greasy fumes up out of the bag, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust:

"Oh, that's absolutely foul," She shuddered. He shrugged:

"As much as I fuss, it's really not that bad. Once, I had to eat watered down synth-wafer mush for about two weeks. We'd mix it with recaf crystals for flavoring – I'm just glad this is warm," He broke open the utensil wrapping and spooned out a lump of the dubious looking substance. As he gulped down his first bite, he sighed happily as the hot meal spread comforting tendrils of warmth through his aching body. After a moment, the Lieutenant asked:

"What would possess you to do such a thing?" she took a long sip of her drink. Girard tossed back a long swig from the bottle, wincing as the spirits burned down his throat.

"As a drop trooper, you learn how to stretch your rations, how to get creative with your meals. Resupply? We didn't know the meaning of the word. Still don't." He explained, munching purposefully on the grainy, nutrient-packed ration.

"No? Are the Elysian Drop Troops not counted among the best supplied infantry regiments in your segmentum?" She asked. Girard nearly choked on his food:

"Is that the idea they're selling?" He spoke around his meal. "Well equipped, perhaps, but best supplied? Not even close. Here's a question for you:" He gestured at the air with his utensil. "How often have you had to change the power cell on your las-weapons?"

"Rarely, if ever." She admitted.

"Exactly. Never had to dial down the output just to conserve ammo, have you? Allows for a steadier shot, you know. Good way to drop a sump-scum pirate, but useless against something like an Ork or those damned Incubi from earlier."

"And if you were operating a glorified las-pointer when such an enemy appears?" She cleared her throat, picking an unfiltered Recaf crystal from her teeth. It was not a high-quality brew.

"You use your knife, your hands, or a sharp rock. If you survive, you pack something that has more punch, like a Mars-Pattern Assault Shotgun, or an auto rifle." He held his ration pack between his knees as he spoke.

"That would explain the attachment to the bolter, then," She mused. Girard shook his head sadly.

"I truly liked that weapon," he sighed.

"Well, I may be able to help with-" She began, but she never finished her sentence. Presently, a man clad in the black attire of an Administratum prefect rounded the corner. He shuffled through a sheaf of parchments, casting his gaze toward the occupants of the bench. He addressed them with a nasal, Imperial drawl.

"Lieutenant, and ah, _Sergeant_, we're ready to begin." He droned. Girard and Lt. Maksachova stood up quickly and followed. Girard made sure to cork the bottle of alcohol and stash it in a thigh pocket of his trousers before leaving.

-][-

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21.32Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Private Hangar Sector 3A. Medicae Primary Oupost.

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"Hey-hey, you. You might wanna wake the frag up," Wulfhausen aimed a slap at Johannsen, mimicking the infamous froggy tone of their cadet instructors. Johannsen flinched, swiping blindly at the brute, but staying slumped beside him in his chair. He was still waiting out his concussion, and kept one hand braced against his forehead, balancing his elbow on his knee.

"Ugh, that voice just makes it worse." he murmured. Wulfhausen merely laughed. The men of Delta Squad were clustered in a corner of the cavernous hangar bay, which now swarmed with Medicae workers, servo skulls, and surgeon servitors. Rain water seeped through the open hangar doors, through which vast trolleys hauled in tarp-covered stacks of equipment. The wounded were clustered around the bottom left corner of the space, and it was around the bed-ridden Corporal Postigo that they now gathered.

"Enough, you two. Let a man rest," he ground his head into the pillow, carefully shifting his injured arm. The medicae personnel had insisted he be confined to a bed for treatment, and placed on stringent detox medications – they were taking no chances with xeno contamination. Beside him, Streeter shook his head, rubbing his arms together; the hangar was cold, and their unarmored attire offered little warmth.

"Corporal, any idea on when we'll be stepping off next?" He asked. Postigo shook his head; this was at least the third time he had asked.

"No, Streeter. Calm yourself, will you?" Postigo murmured.

"Getting a getting a taste for carnage, are ya, boy?" Wulfhausen displayed his toothy grin.

"Isn't it obvious? He was a fraggin' killing machine today," Veidt added, folding his wiry arms across his chest. Streeter began to grin despite himself. The man who had given him the most grief since his addition to the unit was finally praising him, albeit in a back-handed kind of way. He still didn't quite like the man, but he was excited at the prospect of less nagging.

"Too true – that shot you landed on the Incubus? Priceless." Corporal Stern nodded his admiration. Postigo chuckled. He made a fist with his good hand, and then splayed his fingers out, mouthing a _kaboom_ sound.

"And that chimera up in the mountains? A one in a million shot." Johannsen added. Streeter chuckled.

"I'm just more at home during combat than anywhere else now. It's strange – I get more nervous during space transit, or watching an action-vid, than when we're out there." He mused. Veidt raised an eyebrow.

"What a nutter," He scoffed.

"Ah, but he's _our_ nutter, isn't he?" Stern said thoughtfully.

"Like a Speed Freek hopped up on Recaf," Veidt said. Beside him, Wulfhausen leaned into the center of the group, fixing each man with a bug-eyed glare:

"We's gonna 'ave us a propa _Waaaagh_!" He growled, throwing back an imaginary stick shift and gripping madly at a matching steering wheel, in an imitation of the speed-addicted Orks Veidt had referenced. The men around him all burst into laughter; even Postigo managed to chuckle at his men's antics. Veidt waved a dismissive hand:

"Ah, but he's too shrimpy though – not very orky looking at all," he said.

"And you're one to talk? _Look_ at you –you're like a delicate, _whiny_ little flower," Streeter shook his head, earning several laughs from the others.

"He's getting bold, isn't he?" Johannsen piped up. Streeter laughed; deflecting Veidt's verbal jabs with barbed humor was proving effective. He would have to remember that. Delta Squad reveled in the lighthearted mood, passing away the late hours in good company.

-][-

The wood-panelled doors to the concilium swung open, greeting Girard and Lt. Maksachova with a rush of chatter from within. The floor gave way to soft carpeting, muffling their footsteps. Before them were rows of long, oaken tables on either side of them, filled with scattered groups of personnel from every conceivable branch of the Imperial Military, as well as the private sectors. Generals sat alongside captains of Imperial vessels now orbiting Knossos, and among them were scattered representatives of the Imperial administratum. Inside the doors, a pair of Air Assault troopers flanked the entrance, stony features partly obscured by the bills of their covers. In a knot of Guard personnel, Girard spied Colonel Pierce, resplendent in his dress uniform. He sat bolt upright, ramrod spine keeping him in perfect posture. At the front of the room, another Administratum official was stepping away from the podium, behind which was a wide pict-screen.

"Please, be seated here," The prefect motioned to a second row desk. Girard and the Lieutenant shuffled into the row and took their seats. They slipped their data slates from their respective holsters, drawing their styluses and waiting for the debriefing. As they settled into their seats, one of the troopers stationed at the doors took a step forward, making a jarringly loud announcement to the room.

"Commissars on deck! Pay your respects!" he shouted. The room's occupants flew to their feet, facing the front of the room and snapping to attention.

"The Emperor Protects!" the room shouted the affirmation. Girard drew several sidelong glances, having out-shouted everyone around him.

Soft footsteps approached from behind. Girard's heart began to race; all this brass, while intimidating in their own right, paled in comparison with the nerve-wracking presence of even a single Commissar. A trio of figures swept past him and up the center aisle of the room. Three flowing black cloaks and peaked covers passed, one of which was inlaid with silver finery, denoting their iconic status as Commissars. The trio did an about-face at the front of the room, turning to face the gathered leaders.

"Lord Commissar Kryptman presiding – take your seats." The soldier shouted again. Everyone obeyed.

"Carry on, Guardsman." Lord Commissar Kryptman held out a gloved hand, and the man resumed his place at the door. His two adjutants made their way back to the front row, while he remained standing. These universally feared disciplinarians would be observing the gathered leaders as they went about the briefing, mediating the proceedings if necessary. Every last man and woman in the room would do their best to avoid the latter. Kryptman clasped his hands behind his back, and raised his head. His features were craggy, and his gaze penetrating, just like any self-respecting Commissar.

"Brothers and sisters, the Liberation has begun. My compliments to our Elysian brothers, for paving the way for His servants." Kryptman nodded to Colonel Pierce.

"Speaking of which, I believe they have something to share, do they not?" He asked, turning to the prefect seated across the aisle from his own men. The prefect nodded,

"That's correct, my lord." He said quickly, and rose to his feet.

"Then I see no more fitting way to begin these proceedings," Kryptman said. His tone was musing, but the intent was lost on no one. As he made his way to his seat, the prefect motioned to Girard and the Lieutenant, who nudged Girard, indicating that they were wanted at the front of the room.

"My Lords, my Ladies, I give you Lieutenant Kisenya Maksachova of the Navis Nobilite, Naval Field Intelligence, and Sergeant Girard Burkhalter of the 33rd Elysian Stormtrooper regiment, Primaris Detachment." The prefect gave a sweeping bow, and retreated back to his desk.

As he made his way up the aisle, Girard noted with mounting concern that he and the Lieutenant were uncomfortably under-dressed for the occasion. He ignored the tightness in his suspenders as he quickly scanned the room; they were a far cry from the pressed, pleated officials in front of which they now stood. He was also keenly aware of how the damp fabric clung to the Lieutenant's small, perky breasts. Keenly aware, indeed. He fought back an involuntary shudder as they snapped to attention, saluting the assembled officers and generals.

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. May His grace be upon you all." She began, making the sign of the Aquila. The rest of the room mirrored the gesture. With all the pleasantries out of the way, she slipped her ubiquitous dataslate from its holster and set it on the podium. The holo-projector came to life with a soft hum, displaying numerous vid feeds and pict-stills, many of which were taken during her time in Delta Squad.

"The information I am about to present paints the rebellion in an entirely new light. Attend well," She maximized an adjacent vid-screen, depicting the acrobatic lunging and twirling Incubi warriors. A low murmur of shock and disgust rippled through the room, and the two Commissars flanking Kryptman began scribbling notes on their dataslates. The Lieutenant took a breath, and continued her presentation.

"This is the true face of our enemy. An upstart Kabal of Dark Eldar, known throughout this system as the Void Serpents, has focused their foul attentions to Knossos. From records obtained in the data vault beneath our feet, it is clear that they have been operating on this world for quite some time." She said. Still captures showcased the xeno warriors; Girard recognized a macro shot of the sash worn by the drug-fuelled warrior leader.

"They are mostly to blame for the lack of human pirate activity in this sector. By brutally slaughtering the opposition, they were able to meddle in the affairs on Knossos with impunity. Pleasure cults simultaneously infiltrated every facet of government and industry, corrupting their leaders, and those below them with their decadent ways."

"They used their influence to begin bolstering the ranks of Knossos' armored divisions, turning over this continent's manufactories to the task, thus breaching Imperial production strictures. The exact philosophy behind the rebellion is still unclear, but it is not without a specific purpose. While in the vault, transmissions between planet-side forces and t heir off-world brethren suggested that a large flotilla is inbound. The number and size of the vessels are, as yet, unknown. This is a good deal of information to take in at once, I realize- is there anything I can clarify at this time?" The Lieutenant took a step back, opening up the floor to questions. A hand went up in the middle of the room – a red-suited, graying man in full Reyado officers' finery. She nodded in the man's direction.

"Yes, sir?"

"The production of armor has breached established strictures, of course, that's what first alerted us to this little problem. Did your probing of the vault's data banks give you any idea of how much armor we're looking at presently? He asked, in the genteel twang of Reyado High Imperial. The Lieutenant clasped her hands behind her back, mimicking Girard's pose.

"I'm unable to give any exact figures at this time, sir-" She began.

"An estimate, then?" He pressed, lacing his fingers together expectantly.

"At least double what we first expected." She said flatly. A fresh wave of hushed chatter swept through the room. Girard blinked. Double? He could scarcely believe his ears. His mind wandered back to the briefing room aboard the Justicar:

_Three localized armor divisions recently joined with the 512th Mechanized Infantry regiment, along with the 43rd, 57th, and 60th Knossos Infantry._

Colonel Pierce's words drifted through his thoughts. This now meant that at least six armored divisions, each numbering in the thousands of tanks, stood between them and Knossos' liberation. The presence of the Super-Heavy tanks, courtesy of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the crack pilots of the 122nd Vaplaraiso Air Wing would level the playing field considerably, but even then they still faced a daunting number of enemy forces. As the Lieutenant continued her briefing of the commanders, Girard focused mainly on not locking his knees – it had been a long day, and he was growing tired of standing still. He forced his attention back to the briefing, however, and committed himself to absorbing as much of the sensitive information as he could.

The new theory, from listening to the Lieutenant's dialog with the various commanders, was that these Dark Eldar were severely understaffed, compared to more established kabals. The subjugation of Knossos' population was most likely a large-scale slave harvest, doubling as a mustering of human chaff for future conflicts, in the form of the new armored divisions and the infantry regiments. The use of slave armies was common among the Dark Eldar, especially those who did not wish to commit their own forces to battle immediately. The Void Serpents appeared to be taking this practice to its greatest extreme. His wandering mind was wrenched back into the present as Lord Commissar Kryptman spoke again.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. This has been most illuminating. Now, if I may direct some questions at our humble Sergeant here?" Kryptman sat forward, lacing his gloved fingers together on the desk.

"Of course, Lord Commissar." She glanced over to Girard, who was sure his heart could be heard hammering against his ribcage, and stepped aside. The Commissar cast a critical glare up and down the young Stormtrooper. Girard was struck by a child-like sense of inferiority; the very sight of that peaked cover stirred up terrifying memories of his years as a cadet, and the look in his eyes could make a Space Marine flinch. He struggled to swallow as the Commissar stared at him, then at the dataslate on his desk, then back at him again.

"It says here that you and your men, an eight-man squad, repelled not one but two mechanized infantry assaults on an isolated Observator facility. Immediately following this, you arrived at Perjed's Landing, eliminated several platoons' worth of enemy infantry in close quarters combat, and saved a Throne-Class Data Vault from xeno corruption. And through all of this, your squad suffered no fatalities?"

"That is correct, Lord Commissar." Girard said proudly. The details were sketchy at best, but far be it from him to correct the man. As he listed Delta Squad's accomplishments, he spared a glance at Colonel Pierce. His chest swelled with pride, and a grim smile creased his leathery features.

"Such competence is rare, and your dedication to your… duties, is commendable." Kryptman's gaze was drawn to the holo projection. In one pict-frame, a recording of Girard's battle with the Dark Eldar squad leader played out from the Lieutenant's point of view.

"In light of your accomplishments, your command has formally requested an officer's commission on your behalf, Sergeant. A field commission, effective immediately after the appropriate proceedings," Kryptman said with only passing interest, flipping through his dataslate with his stylus. Girard scarcely had the presence of mind to clench his jaw, to keep it from dropping open.

"It's far from the conventional process, I realize, but these are strange times we live in, are they not? And looking at your service record here, I must confess your performance and leadership ability is one deserving of a higher station. As the ranking regimental overlord in this campaign, I have the authority to bestow such an honor upon you. Do you, Sergeant Girard Burkhalter, accept this commission and the responsibilities it entails?" He asked. Girard already knew the answer – any reasonable man would.

"For Emperor and Imperium, I accept." Girard choked out the formal acceptance. This was all happening rather fast; he had to clench the muscles in his legs to keep them from shaking. Kryptman rose from his seat and approached Girard, producing something small and metallic from within his greatcoat.

"I present to you the symbol of your office, Lieutenant Burkhalter. May the Emperor of Man guide you and give you purpose." Kryptman stood before Girard, holding his hand open to reveal a tiny silver Aquila, with a Thunder Hammer clasped in its talons.

"And I shall bring His holy light to the dark corners of the galaxy," Girard finished the impromptu ceremony with the final intonation.

"Then it is done. Please excuse the lack of formality, Lieutenant. I'm sure you understand the need for swift action. I believe Colonel Pierce will be able to better settle you into your new role." Kryptman gestured to the Colonel, who rose to his feet, whispering a quick word to two of his Captain before addressing Kryptman.

"I shall tend to it at once, Lord Commissar." He said.

"We thank you for your time, Lieutenants Burkhalter and Maksachova. You have left us much to discuss. We ask now that you leave us to our deliberations," Kryptman said. His amiable tone still carried its own authoritative edge. Girard and Lt. Maksachova took the hint, and made their way out of the briefing room, with Colonel Pierce in the lead. Once out in the hallway, Lt. Maksachova parted ways with Girard, tapping at her dataslate, and then pointing to his. It was a standard "I'll be in touch" kind of gesture.

"How're you feeling, Lieutenant?" Colonel Pierce asked, raising his remaining eyebrow. Girard blinked. The title didn't seem to fit yet.

"I haven't yet decided, sir." He responded honestly, earning a wry grin from his superior, who led him down the corridor.

"Now, I assure you I would have requested your commission based on your skill alone, I'm afraid that it comes under more dire circumstances. During their seizure of this region's orbital defense battery, Gamma Squad's Lieutenant Zimmerov was killed in the attack, along with two of his men."

"My prayers are with those lost," Girard frowned. He hadn't known the man well, but the loss of a fellow Stormtrooper, and his de facto platoon commander, was always a tragedy that weighed heavily on his heart. The Colonel nodded his agreement.

"As are mine. At any rate, we needed a replacement, and you were the most promising candidate in our ranks. I expect you to honor the memory of Lt. Zimmerov by continuing your impressive performance."

"I will not disappoint, sir."

"That's what I like to hear. I'll pass word on to your dataslate after the briefing ceremony is complete. Now, do you have anything for me, Lieutenant Burkhalter?" He asked, folding his hands behind his back. Girard paused, momentarily distracted by his glaring augmetic eye.

"There is one thing, sir." He said.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to know why Lieutenant Maksachova was imbedded with our unit – I would have thought she'd deploy with the Air Assault units, my experience with xeno pirates notwithstanding. I can't help but feel there's more at work here." He asked. The Colonel nodded in understanding.

"Ah yes, the Navy woman. You are no doubt familiar with her unique physiology?" He asked, dodging his speculation at larger forces at work. Girard nodded.

"She's on the payroll of the Nobilite, sure enough, but she has ties with the Priesthood of Mars. Doesn't take a genius to see that," He said.

"She _does_ have a nasty left hook," Girard said, recalling how she was able to crush bones with her bare hands.

"At any rate, the Cogs wanted a look in that vault, and frankly so did we, as did everyone else. A little convincing on the Navy side of the house was much simpler than dropping in a Skitarri unit, apparently." He explained.

"Chasing us down, flying us hundreds of miles to the star port, and charging in with less than ten men is more efficient? I'm flattered," Girard shook his head. The warriors of the Mechanicus were frighteningly powerful, and emotionless killing machines – to have trumped them in terms of mission capability seemed far-fetched at the very least.

"I don't pretend to understand their motivations, but I can't argue with the results." Colonel Pierce slapped him on the shoulder. Girard smiled.

"Permission to have Lt. Maksachova imbedded indefinitely, sir?" He said boldly. The Colonel stared for a moment, considering the proposition.

"I'll see what I can do." He said slowly. "You are dismissed, Lieutenant."


	11. Planetfall: Part II

Dawn broke over the Vidal Mountain Range, bathing the rain-slick landscape of Perjed's Landing in blinding shades of gold and orange, and drawing low wisps of steam along the asphalt. The stream of landing craft and bulk carriers had not abated; the landing lights had continued to illuminate the tarmac long into the half-light of morning. For the next few days, the rank and file soldiers of the Imperial Guard would be taking the reins; the men of the Elysian 33rd had earned their rest. For now.

Girard was up and moving at 0300 the following morning. The late night briefing-turned-promotion ceremony had left little time to sleep, and try as he might, he found prolonged sleep elusive. His men were partly responsible, as well. After announcing his commission to Delta Squad, and after the round of cheers and jubilation that awoke the entire medicae post, they had downed the entire bottle of potent Knossos vintage as a combined effort.

As promised, Girard's dataslate had a package of information detailing his new responsibilities as Lieutenant. The timestamp read 0245; apparently, the Colonel was not fond of sleep, either. In the data package was a revised troop roster, which included the surviving members of Gamma Squad. Girard was now in charge of a twelve-man squad, still bearing the Delta designator –rather large by Elysian standards. At dawn, with the original members of Delta Squad camped out in the medicae building, Girard sought out the remnants of Gamma Squad in the main concourse. The steamy air buffeted his coal-black combat uniform, jacket, cover and all. The tremendous prop-wash created by the behemoth landing vessels forced him to cinch his cover down, and the wind pressed impatiently at his sleeves, tightly folded mid-bicep.

Girard passed through the doors of the Concourse, across the granite-floored rotunda that swarmed with activity, and over to an adjacent service elevator, bound for the Executor Wing.

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++07.11Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Central Concourse. Floor 12. Executor Wing. Administratum Post.

Overseer Office no.12546e.

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Girard stepped off the elevator, and into a more peaceful corridor. He made his way down the hall, glancing at the numbers stenciled into each doorway he passed. Finally, he palmed open the door to a wood-paneled office near the end of the hall, which had been converted to a bunk room. Inside was a small cluster of Stormtroopers, inspecting their weapons and performing improvised exercises on their bunk railing.

"Gamma Squad?" Girard asked, stepping inside. One man, doing pushups with his feet resting on the railing of his bunk, leapt up from the floor. He glimpsed the silver emblems pinned to Girard's collar.

"Attention on deck!" He shouted. The rest of the men snapped to attention. Girard took a moment to bask in the glory of that statement. He cleared his throat.

"As you were. I'm Lieutenant Burkhalter, Lt. Zimmerov's replacement. Welcome to Delta Squad." He announced, doing a quick head-count. He turned to his dataslate, and began to tick off names.

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...initializing /roster-revised. exe

standby.

[…]

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.

.

…/ Lcpl Kassin, Tomer.

+Present.

…/Cpl Gideon, Jonah.

+Present.

…/Lcpl Heisig, Albrecht.

+Present.

…/Lcpl Lindemann, Fedor.

+Present.

…/ Lcpl Morrow, Jorran.

+Present.

[…]

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.

]]All Personnel Accounted For[[

*Thought for the Day*

"Suffering is good for the soul."

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Everyone was present – all that remained was to put names to faces. That would come with time. He checked his wrist-chronometer before asking:

"Now then, which one of you lot is Corporal Gideon?" Girard scanned the room, focusing on the man who raised his hand. He was a tall, powerfully built man, the tanned flesh of his arms adorned with harsh tattoos.

"That would be me, sir." He said. Girard appraised him quickly. His broad build and tanned, leathery complexion was characteristic of those hailing from one of Elysia's verdant mining colonies. The tattoos were of heavy inks, and of a distinctly gang-related flair. He was a product of the Schola Progenium's Juve Outreach Initiative, an experimental program originating in Elysia and its outlying worlds. A reformed hive gangster, this man had been subjected to training and re-education regimens widely considered barbaric, even in this day and age. Corporal Gideon would be a valuable asset to the new and improved Delta Squad.

"At ease, Corporal. Alright, it's 0730 now. The special operations center is being set up beside the medicae post – you know where that is?" He asked. Gideon nodded quickly.

"Good. Start moving your equipment down that way; after that, stand by with the rest of the men– I'll be in and out of this place all day today, and I'll try and pass the word as I get it. Should be an easy day for you lot, though." Girard said.

"Good to go sir, we'll start moving now." Gideon said.

-][-

Girard and Mack stepped out into the narrow corridor of the concilium block, the lofty domain of the Imperial High Command.

"Thank you again for taking me along – it's nice to be so willingly included in 'Guard proceedings. Frankly it's rather exciting," Mack said as they took another turn around a blind turn.

"Well you're a part of our unit after all. For the time being, that is." Girard said, slowing as he reached their destination.

They silently slipped into Colonel Pierce's new 'office,' a wood-paneled affair, once inhabited by an Administratum adept. Gathered inside were the other three lieutenants and captain of the Primaris Detachment. Colonel Pierce was seated at a low-slung desk in the center of the roomy space, a holo-projector displaying maps and satellite images in a tight circle.

"Good, a full house. Let's begin." He asked, sweeping up a dataslate from his side. The other lieutenants did the same, styluses at the ready.

"First off, excellent work yesterday, you've done the 33rd proud. In light of your successes, we've been given another task worthy of our talents:" he prodded the projector, switching the display to a three-dimensional rendering of Gantos. The multi-tiered, urban behemoth was spread across the rolling plains to the west of the Vidal Mountain Range, too low and wide to be officially classified as a hive city, but not far off in sheer scale. Piles of tiny red squares winked on inside the projection, creating speckled rivers of crimson through the towering buildings.

"Alright, here's our next target, 'gents. " Colonel Pierce sat forward, gesturing through the projection with an augmetic finger. "Two traitor armored divisions have entrenched themselves along the southern and western edges of the mega-city. The citadel at the top here has been screaming out comms of every spectrum since the rebellion began."

"Obviously, this is the command center for the traitor forces on this continent, hell, maybe even the entire hemisphere." Captain Metzger, the Colonel's second in command, piped up from behind him. He was a rough looking man, well-muscled and full of a rugged charm.

"That's right. And all that artillery means that at this rate, no one's getting within ten miles of the place without taking a right nasty beating." Colonel Pierce pointed to the edges of the projection.

"The citadel is the heart of the war effort in this region, and SegCom's tasked us with tearing it out." Pierce said, relishing the symbolism.

"But that's just the end result – we have to create the ideal conditions for seizing the citadel, and the traitor commanders in turn. This _was_ a peaceful system, all things considered – it's time we find out just what the hell they're trying to accomplish here."

"They're ready for a fight from the south, that much is certain, and we won't make it far by air. They'll know about their orbital defense platforms getting thrashed, and they're not likely to let that just happen again." The Colonel's dataslate chimed in the middle of his briefing. He glanced at the device, cursing under his breath.

"You'll have to excuse me gents; this can't wait – Captain Metzger?" Colonel Pierce pointed at the display as he pulled the door shut behind him. Metzger nodded and slid into the Colonel's chair.

"Right then, Where were we? So, the Reyado armor is linking up with those super heavies that the 'cogs brought along. They'll be coming straight up from the south after some light orbital bombardment, happily killing all the way into the city proper," Metzger panned the display to the west.

"Prison ships of the Minauros Penal Legions are touching down on the western plains as we speak. They'll be softening up that sector in preparation for the 122nd's aerial advance in that direction." Metzger turned to Girard and Mack.

"Delta Squad, you'll be hitching a ride with Valkyries from Umbra Squadron on their way into the city, right through the path the penal legion is paving. Once on the ground, you'll push straight through the manufactories, up through the hab-blocks, and towards the long-range field guns on the second tier."

"And the rest of us, sir?" Lieutenant Tharn, a gruff man of obvious agri-world heritage asked.

The Colonel returned, stowing his dataslate with a grumble. He continued where Metzger left off, detailing each new squad's duties for the retaking of Gantos, dubbed by high command as operation Kraken. The Stormtroopers retained their same squad designators, but would be referred to as Invictus by the larger Imperial forces. Girard's squad received the title of Invictus 1, by virtue of his name's prevalence on the Colonel's alphabetically organized roster. The others were being deployed around the region as well; only Delta Squad and Lt. Tharn's men, Invictus 3, would be deploying directly into Gantos. Tharn's men were providing short-range reconnaissance for the advancing armor. The others would be deploying at sundown, eliminating resistance around pumping stations and logistics sites along the southern fringe, softening up the area for the 88th's armored push.

"This is where the fun starts, 'gents. Invictus 1 and 3 will step off in four days. Get word to your Sergeants, get in touch with your Munitorum aides, and get some bunk time. Pack for a three day assault. Dismissed."

-][-

With the afternoon sun high in the sky, the new Delta Squad raced along the far end of Perjed's Landing, las-rifles and utility packs in tow with all manner of aircraft soaring overhead. While they awaited deployment, Girard was going to make sure his men hadn't enough time to slack off. Stormtroopers were not subject to the usual menial tasks laid out to other guardsmen, which was something that drew no small amount of resentment from the lesser men. Gideon's men had their gear stowed away in the new staging area, and during a lull in the activity, Girard decided to keep his men primed for action with a little physical conditioning.

Since Lt. Maksachova was imbedded with his unit, he had convinced her to send her armsmen out for their calisthenics sessions. They kept pace for a time, but they were more accustomed to short bursts of exertions and the sudden violence of action common in naval engagements, and weren't ready for the onslaught of Stormtrooper exercise regimens. As the more athletic armsman, Petty Officer Alno was fitting in well with his new comrades, jockeying for position in their small formation and chiding the men he passed.

Presently, they passed a column of Valparaiso infantry as they made their way to Rhino transports, lined up along a section of tarmac. These men would be deploying behind the 88th Reyado's armored advance, sweeping across woodland sprawl separating the plains regions and Perjed's Landing from the mega-metropolis of Gantos. As Delta Squad passed the infantrymen, Veidt spied the unit's vox operator, hunched under the unwieldy mass of the device. He chuckled, and called up to Girard.

"Aren't you glad we don't have to carry around a back-breaker like that, sir?" he asked. Girard slowed his pace enough to facilitate dialog.

"Don't go knocking the 'caster, now. I came up through Elysia's radio battalions into the drop troop regiments, so I feel their pain." He took a deep breath before continuing his anecdote.

"I complained about it one day in our shop, and my platoon Sergeant overheard me. So he shoves me aside, hauls it off the work bench, and hurls it into the corner of the room as hard as he can. The damn thing cracks the tiles when it hits the floor, and nearly crushes another man's foot. He turns to me: 'Now turn it on,' he says, so I did. And wouldn't you know it, it still worked like a dream," he finished his story, and spared a glance over his shoulder. Stern, Wulfhausen, and a few of the new men were chuckling.

"Well I'll try to avoid throwing my vox bead against the deck, sir. Ugh, _sir_, it's so strange to call you that." Veidt half-smiled, half-sneered.

Delta Squad came to a stop along a section of tarmac in the shadow of the concourse, at the end of their fourth, two-mile loop around one quadrant of Perjed's Landing. Chests heaving and bodies drenched in sweat, Girard spied a pair of angular, crimson vessels descending upon the star port. Girard slung his replacement las rifle across his shoulders, pointing up as they descended.

"And here come the super-heavies. I've been waiting to see this," He panted, wiping sweat from his brow. The stream of personnel that crisscrossed the tarmac began to slow, parting along the central runway upon which these vessels now rested. While the background whine of engines and rumbling of tanks still persisted, all other noise had ceased. All around the star port, small crowds were gathering, and dark masses of onlookers could be glimpsed in the concourse's viewing galleries.

Pneumatic joints opened the enormous cargo ramps mounted on the front of the vessels, revealing shadowy interiors. First down the ramps came processions of Tech Priests, flanked by drifting servo skulls. A low, rolling chant drifted on the breeze, emanating from the ranks of crimson-robed machine cultists. Moments later, massive treads appeared out of the loading bay, some twelve feet in height. As the vehicle emerged, its turret soon began to protrude from the bay as well. A cheer went up from the gathering crowds as a Stormblade, a titan-hunter Super Heavy Battletank, rolled onto the tarmac. Purity seals strung across its hull fluttered in the morning breeze, and the plasma blastcannon that served as its turret thrummed with unthinkable energy. A fresh round of exultant cheers went up as another, similar version of the venerable god-tanks rolled from the hull of the ship; the second vessel was disgorging a similar cargo.

"Emperor's Mercy," Corporal Gideon whispered.

"They've certainly pulled out all the stops, haven't they?" said Heisig, one of Gideon's men. The squat, blocky-muscled man wiped at his brow as he watched the procession. Girard glanced about at his men; they were all awe-struck by the presence of these machines of immense power. He too felt his heart race at the sight. Four super-heavy tanks, with a variety of fearsome armaments - the thought of these vehicles advancing on Gantos, smashing aside the opposition and annihilating their enemies filled him with hope. When he had learned of the overwhelming forces that had mustered on the surface of Knossos, he had felt no small amount of apprehension. The arrival of these legendary vehicles put his mind at ease, however.

"The Brotherhood of Mars doesn't appear to know the meaning of the word overkill, do they?" Veidt breathed.

"No, they do not." Girard said.

"And I couldn't be happier about it," the newly appointed Sergeant Stern added. Girard allowed his men a few moments to watch the procession, but he would have to send them on their merry way before too much time had passed. All manner of pre-screenings, localized immunizations, vitamin supplement issue, and other preparatory work still had to be done. His dataslate had chimed at least twice while they were on their run; there was no rest for Delta Squad, and less still for its newest commander. After the tanks had been rolled into their respective hangars for their own prep-work and the crowds dispersed, Girard called out to his men.

"Alright I'm finished with you – get changed over and head to your appointments. I'll be in touch." He said, wiping his hands on his trousers before fishing his dataslate out of his cargo pocket.

"Thank the Emperor -Wulfie, can you get my back this time?" Johannsen batted his eyes at his brutish friend.

"Ah, why don't you go ask Alno?" Wulfhausen burst into his dry, whooping laugh – and gave the sailor a nudge in the ribs.

"Now I resent that, good sir," Alno shouted, wagging a disapproving finger.

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++11.55Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Central Concourse. Floor 12. Servant Shower Block 3.

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Sunlight sliced through the narrow windows set high around the walls of the empty shower block. The white-tiled room caught the light, creating a pale, blooming glare that assaulted the retinas. Droplets of water echoed around the vast, open spaces as they impacted with the tile surfaces. With the rest of Delta Squad out securing their gear and moving into the Executor Wing with the help of Corporal Gideon's men, Girard had earned a few minutes to himself.

He stood under his showerhead, the icy water not even fazing him as he rejoiced in the cleansing sensation. He had watched at first as the water collected at his feet and raced towards the drain, but now he simply threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, allowing the water to sluice over his fair, unadorned flesh. As he had expected, his body was riddled with deep purple bruises. Between the round impacts of the splinter rounds, the knuckle-shaped marks from the Dark Eldar Autarch, and the distinctly polearm-shaped bruise across his shoulders, he had taken quite a beating.

He held that position for a time, until he heard the metal clang of the door opening behind him, echoing across the banks of lockers in the adjacent chamber. He shifted his hearing from the cascade of water, to the shuffling and zipping sounds of someone preparing for a shower.

_Damn, so much for solitude,_ he thought.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Burkhalter." It was Lt. Maksachova. Girard snapped his head back to face the wall in front of him.

"It certainly is, ma'am." He said.

"Oh, come now. As a ranking officer, you can simply refer to me as 'Mack.' My shipmates find it much easier than _Maksachova_." She said, her accent deepening as she said her name.

"Duly noted, Mack." He tried out the name. He rather liked it.

Girard ran his hands across his face, pushing through the stream of water, listening to the soft pats of her bare feet as she entered the shower block. In his peripheral vision (which was uncommonly sharp), he could see her bare form stepping up to the showerhead beside him. He found a poorly grouted tile in front of him and rooted his gaze on its incongruous edges; she dipped out of sight for a moment as she hung a small mesh bag of cleansing ointments over the hot water dial. Girard laughed, spitting away the water as it slipped through his open mouth.

"Of all the spots in this room…" He said, sweeping his hair back against the water. Mack gestured to the opposite wall.

"Those aren't working. Nor are the ones next door. Don't flatter yourself," She teased. Girard looked over his shoulder – the showerheads were dry, and crusted with hard water stains.

"How're those bruises feeling today?" She asked.

"Painful, but I'll live. And how about yours?" He decided to finally make eye contact. He pointed in her direction with his free hand, wincing as he ran his cleansing bar across a tender spot on his side. She looked to her forearm briefly, before shrugging.

"Could have been worse. Only superficial tissue damage." She replied. Girard cast a quick, appraising glance at Mack. She was deceptively petite, without her uniform and body armor to give her small frame substance. After she revealed her augmetic enhancements, he had wondered vaguely what such extensive modification might look like. He could see that her body, now laid bare, was not marred by surgical scars, and no discoloration or waxy sheen of synth-skin marked her as any different from the average human. The lack of intrusive measures probably meant that the procedure was exceedingly expensive, even on an officer's salary.

As was expected, her physique was toned and athletic, built of sleek, natural looking muscle that blended seamlessly with her ivory flesh. The light pigmentation came from spending months aboard navy vessels, far removed from the warming light of a star. She pressed the pads of her fingers into her bruised flesh, grimacing as she tested the severity of the wound.

"I don't suppose you regret turning down the pain receptor surgeries?" He asked after a moment.

"Not at all - the servants of the Emperor cannot survive on faith alone, Girard." She gave him a knowing look, before adding:

"I wouldn't be able to enjoy a warm shower like this, either." She pointed up to her shower head.

"Warm? Nonsense," Girard cocked an eyebrow, reaching into her shower jet. Hers was a heavenly cascade of soothing heat, a far cry from his icy barrage.

"Been communing with the utility machine spirits, have we? Well put in a good word for me, would you?" He said.

"You just want me around for the chance at a warm shower, is that it?" She said, tugging a bottle of cleanser out of the bag. A smirk had crept up the corner of her mouth.

"Perhaps. But what can I say? There's something about a woman with an adamantium bone structure that makes me weak in the knees." he joked. She cocked her head back and laughed. As the sweet sound filled the shower block, shallow dimples creased her face, pushing up towards her high cheek bones.

"Well I don't blame you," She said, giving her soapy backside a sharp smack.

"So I have a question for you, Burkhalter," She said after a moment.

"Send it."

"Where did you learn those unarmed techniques, the ones you used to kill those Eldar in the concourse? I've never seen anything quite like it. And no nonsense about clearance levels, ours are identical. I checked." She insisted.

"And yet you still need me to explain. Interesting." Girard said, forcing a casual tone into the sensitive subject matter. He took a breath:

"Elysia's a progressive kind of system, and its military isn't afraid to take a more unorthodox approach to keep its citizens safe," Girard began.

"Clearly," Mack purred.

"We can't very well call on the Astartes every time trouble arrives at our doorstep, now can we? No, we take it upon ourselves to educate our troops in proper xeno-killing." Girard said.

"Attending the school of hard knocks, yes?" Mack asked, referring to Girard's story from the previous evening.

"Not only that, but we've had the privelige of learning from experts in the field. An _Inquisitive_ panel of experts, you might say." He said, glancing to note her reaction. She seemed markedly impressed.

"That's quite the innovation. Not unheard of, but not on my list of things to expect from a Stormtrooper unit," She mused. Clearly, she was a woman used to being in the know.

"Well, that's the point, really. All that unsettled space around Elysia isn't just pirate real estate – we have to train _somewhere_. But yes, the Imperium likes its secrets,"

"And while Elysia isn't exactly the Eastern Fringe, if everyone knew the Imperial Guard's finest dabbled in Eldar martial arts, no doubt the Ecclesiarchy would be screaming _Heresy!_ all the way to holy Terra itself." Girard said, explicitly stating his secret at last.

"Perceptive, articulate, _and_ deadly. You're a scary man, Girard Burkhalter," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Good thing you're on my side, eh?" He said.

"Indeed. Now our briefing got me thinking – I may be able to give our squad a significant edge in our coming mission," Mack said, bringing their discussion back to the present.

"Is that right? Now how might you do that?" Girard said.

"Put some pants on and maybe I'll show you," she said, slapping his shoulder.

"Well then, let's not dawdle any longer," Girard said. Mack nodded as she shook her head under the water, sweeping her hair back and forth to chase away any remaining soap. Girard spun the dial below the showerhead, shutting off the water and plucking his well-starched towel from its place on the pipe. He neatly tucked it around his midriff and made his way to his locker. As he left the shower block, he treated himself to a final glance over his shoulder, before pushing aside his more base instincts.

Girard got himself shaved and dressed at just a slow enough a pace to allow for Mack to catch up. By the time he was buttoning up his shirt, she was fully dressed in a dark blue Navy equivalent and pinning up her hair into its usual bun. Girard palmed the door open as she tucked her dataslate in her pocket.

"Ready, then? Follow me – and let's fetch Stern on our way,"

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++13.30 Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Central Concourse. Mechanicus Tech-Chapel Outpost. Private Hangar Bay 12.

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"You think the Cogs are just going to pass out their gear to anyone who asks?" Stern said in disbelief. Him, Girard, and Mack were standing in the shadow of the hangar bay-turned Mechanicus outpost, before the open hangar doors.

"We kept a data vault – effectively a holy relic to them –from being polluted with the xeno AI, and handed it to them on a silver platter, without a scratch. So, short answer? Yes."

"You seem confident enough," Girard said. "What kind of gear do you reckon they're willing to part with?" He asked.

"More weapons than anything else, I imagine. Unless you want to get some work done," She tapped at her temples and laughed.

"No no, I think I'll pass this time around, thank you." Girard muttered.

"I suspect we will have need of more weaponry like the fusion cutter used by Johannsen, given the amount of enemy armor we face." She mused.

"Us _ground-pounders_ just call them 'meltas." Stern grumbled to himself.

"Well they're not going to wheel the goods out to us – let's get in there," Girard said, waving to his compatriots as he made for the hangar.

The trio filed into the cavernous space, wrinkling their noses at the copious amounts of incense dispersing through the air. The other Lieutenants of Primaris Detachment had left for the Imperial Guard armory, still contained in a series of bulk landers. They had earned a few odd looks from their comrades as they headed for the tech-chapel. Once inside, Mack flagged down a passing adept, a young man swathed in crimson robes and sporting minimal intrusive augmetic enhancement. The lack of modification marked him out as a lower ranking member of the Mechanicus; the more man became machine, the closer they came to understanding the true nature of the Omnissiah. Or so they believed. The man pointed towards a work station set against the far wall of the hangar, behind which artificers worked feverishly under the supervision of a full-fledged Tech Priest. Mack gestured to Girard and Stern, and they followed her lead now.

"Techseer Haupt, how do you fare this morning?" She called across the space as they approached. Over the background noise of the hanger, the tech-priest ratcheted what could be loosely referred to as a head towards the newcomers, emitting a burst of screeching static from shoulder-mounted speaker units. Girard had seen this kind of thing before: Lingua-technis, the language of the Mechanicus. To unmodified humans like Stern and himself, deciphering the encrypted language was utterly impossible. Mack, however, was fully able to understand. As she answered, Girard half expected her mouth to emit the same unnerving screech.

"Ah, and also with you, Brother. We have come to this place in order to complete the transaction we discussed in the previous cycle." She replied. This time, the Tech Priest elected to adjust its speech pattern to one that the other two humans could understand.

"Of course. It is only fitting that you and your fellows be rewarded for your valiant defense of such vast knowledge. The two of you are the qualified special weapons operators, are you not?" It droned through the speakers, gesturing to Girard and Sgt. Stern. Girard stepped forward, speaking quickly. He ignored Stern's confused sidelong glance.

"Correct." He said, taking a bow.

"Very good," it said. Like some form of mechanical serpent, one of its back-mounted augmetic limbs swiveled back, snapping at the air twice with a hydraulic clamp. From behind it, a loping, gene-bulked servitor appeared pushing a wide-tracked dolly, a blue tarp loosely draped over its contents. The synthetically enhanced muscles on its naked body twitched and flexed with monstrous energies as it brought the cart to a halt, gurgling and chittering excitedly while clapping its massive hands together. Another burst of static from the Techseer banished its minion.

"We understand that you face a large number of the traitors' war machines. While our venerable Stormblades will sweep aside such chaff without incident, we can see the logic in equipping your kind with our specialized weaponry. You will appreciate what we have arranged for you." The Techseer droned. It motioned to the dolly, augmetic limb snatching the tarp away in a flash.

Girard and Stern whistled in unison.

"With all this mess, we could take Gantos on our own," Stern crossed his arms. Girard chuckled to himself, surveying the contents of the dolly. Neat racks of long, cylindrical melta bombs lined the cart, and beside the piles of explosives sat a stasis chest, a rack of freshly anointed boltguns and several crates of ammunition.

"Sergeant Stern, you and your men will carry those into battle. And Burkhalter, that chest's got your name on it." Mack insisted. Girard stooped down, pressing his thumb against the sealant runes on the side of the chest. It popped open with a piercing hiss, sending wisps of frosty air curling out of the interior. He gently pushed the lip open to reveal his mystery item.

Girard blinked.

"Aha! All praises to the Omnissiah, eh?" He exclaimed, pulling a glossy black plasma rifle from within and holding it aloft. He could see the nearby artificers cringing with fright as he hefted the rare and powerful weapon swiftly from its case. The Techseer watched for a moment before stepping forward.

"Indeed. The weapon you possess is a revolutionary design, the Mark IV _'Solar's Wrath'_ Pattern Plasma Weapon. It is a recent innovation for which we at the Magos Alchemys are proud to claim credit. The plasma flasks are highly efficient, and are able to carry double the normal capacity of standard ammo packs." It explained. A tone of intense, almost paternal pride replaced its monotone. It gestured to various parts of the compact, elegant weapon with both its organic limbs and its augmetics.

"The generarium housing is streamlined and triple-reinforced – prolonged firing and errant shrapnel will no longer bring death to you or your comrades. This design results in a narrow, more focused discharge, making the Solar's Wrath perfectly suited to tank hunting operations. Against feeble, organic targets, it is most lethal." The Techseer said excitedly. Girard gripped the weapon, barrel pointing to the ceiling.

"Glorious." He breathed as he examined his new favorite killing tool.

"The glories of the Machine God are truly without limits." It proclaimed, raising its organic arms skyward. It sidestepped Girard with a grace that belied its awkward, cable-infested body. Gesturing to the bolter rack, one of its augmetic eyes flared, displaying a high-res holovid display in midair.

"These bolters are of standard Imperial Guard design, but we have modified them with recoil suppressors to account for the fearsome rounds your men will be firing." It gestured to the holovid, a technical dissertation on a new brand of anti-armor round: the Lancer. Grainy vid-captures showed weapon servitors firing the rounds in a bright-lit Mechanicus lab, flaying apart hunks of arma-plas plating downrange.

"Utilizing a plasma-static charge, the Lancer liquefies a solid bolt of adamantium into a super-heated, molten 'lance' upon impact with a target. The lethal payload burrows through the thickest of armor, saturating vehicles' occupants with molten adamantium. Most lethal." If the Techseer still had a human face, Girard imagined that it would be smiling.

"We will wield these mighty weapons truly, Techseer Haupt. When battle is joined, we shall bring glory to both our Emperor, and your Machine God." He bowed, placing the plasma rifle back into the stasis chest. The loping man-servitor reappeared, excitedly tugging the tarp back over the cart before wheeling it off to the doors of the hangar, where Delta Squad's Munitorum staffers would be waiting to secure the battlegear.

"I trust that you will, Lieutenant Burkhalter." It resumed its monotone drawl. Girard's dataslate chimed, drawing the Techseer's attention briefly.

"Thank you again for your assistance, but now we must take our leave." He explained. The Techseer bowed.

"Go in peace, Lieutenant." It droned. Mack said her goodbyes, joining Girard and Sgt. Stern as they made their way back to the hangar doors.

"That was incredible," Stern breathed. Girard smiled.

"Didn't have you pegged as the pious sort," Mack said, surprised at Girard's choice of words in the hangar. Girard sucked in a great lungful of incense-free air:

"Not in that sense, no. But it certainly sounded good, didn't it?" He laughed. "Now before we get the rest of the men suited up, who's hungry?"


	12. Tank Hunting

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++16.05Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11

Special Operations Staging Area.

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"It's- it's beautiful!" Johannsen exclaimed, running a hand down the barrel of one of Delta Squad's new boltguns. The squad, and Mack's armsmen, had gathered beside a series of trolleys, packs of their own personal war gear in tow as per Girard's orders. The afternoon sun made the matte finish of their new weapons glow with an almost divine aura.

"Secure that battle-boner, Stretch – you've still gotta drive the _cooker_," Wulfhausen said. Johannsen's expression of elation melted, replaced by one of sudden realization and outrage.

"You _would_ find a way to ruin this for me wouldn't you, you big joy-slaying homunculus!" He sneered, shaking a fist at his comrade. "But wait, count them – there's one for everyone here, see?" Johannsen pointed at the rack of boltguns, sudden optimism taking hold.

"The man's right – everyone gets to partake, it would seem," said Heisig, one of Gideon's fellows. He was a short, burly man, typical of an Elysian colonist.

"You could always just remove the stock on your cooker – reduce the weight and profile," Lindemann, another new addition, suggested. He sat on his assault pack, scratching idly at the strip of buzzed hair atop his head. It was a style favored by some Catachan jungle fighters, and it gave his tall, imposing figure an even more feral and warlike appearance.

"You see? I like these fellas – supportive and resourceful, unlike _someone_ I know," Johannsen nodded in approval, narrowing his eyes in mock accusation at Wulfhausen, who simply laughed at his friend's antics. Presently, Girard and Mack came into view, approaching from across the tarmac.

"Now would ya look at that – to hell with fraternization 'regs, I'll take a Commissar's lash for a piece of that any day," one Lance Corporal Morrow remarked, eyeing up Mack as she drew closer.

"Careful there, shipmate, she'd probably conquer _you_ before you knew what was happening," Alno chuckled beside Vald, who opted to stare coldly at the crass Stormtrooper.

"Bust his head like a fraggin' zit, she would," Veidt nodded in agreement, before Morrow could voice his rebuttal.

"And drag him back to her cave like an Ogryn, too I'd wager," Alno added, drawing a round of laughter from the Stormtroopers. The idle conversation ceased when Girard got within hearing distance.

"So what do you think? I'd better not see any stains on those bolters," Girard shouted over the roar of a passing aircraft. His men laughed, and formed up around their Lieutenant.

"Well as you can see, we're tooling up to deal some serious pain. We'll be operating with a full combat load, so get ready for another full-carapace op." A few groans drifted up from his men; in anything short of a boarding action or pitched battle, Elysian Stormtroopers preferred to forego some of their armor plating in favor of greater mobility. But in the face of such tremendous firepower, travelling light was simply unacceptable.

"A necessary evil, for sure. Look, these traitors have more armor than they know what to do with, and reports coming in from the penal legions' monitoring servitors are saying they're not afraid to throw their tanks in at the slightest provocation. We need the protection, just like we need those sexy little bolters over there. They've been fitted for special AP rounds, so we can fraggin' shred anything that moves, tank or not." Girard explained. Veidt piped up from the back of the assembly. He pointed to him with his stylus, data slate in hand.

"Send it, Veidt."

"I hope they bloody work this time, sir. I don't want to go through Hyksos Prime all over again," He said. A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered Stormtroopers.

"No I saw the footage, these things are vicious – no muddy jungle crawls from under tank treads for us this time." He assured them, before continuing.

"Right, next order of business. Stern, they're all spun up on the loadout and gear requirements, correct?" He asked.

"Yes sir, everything's packed and ready to go as soon as we get the word. Checked them all myself." He stood at parade rest, full of a confidence that let Girard know that he'd taken to his promotion exceptionally well.

"Outstanding, that takes care of that. Speaking of which, my older guys know this, but I'll say it for the new ones: I see you all brought most of your gear out here for inspection – good initiative, but don't worry about that. This isn't Stern's first outing, so I trust he knows what to look for. I don't give a damn how you rig up your harness or your webbing, just make sure your setup works for you, and you'll have no problems from me," He said, ticking off another box on his dataslate. He tucked it in his cargo pocket, and waved his men closer, away from their gear.

"C'mon, bring it in, bring it in." His men clustered around, listening intently. Commanding men of his own was no problem, but his newfound position made for a jarring change of perspective. All that separated himself from them was some kind words from a Commissar, and a metallic collar device, instead of matte black. But rank was a strange animal, and Girard was determined to not let his status as an officer create a rift between himself and his men. After a moment of thought, he finally spoke.

"Look, honestly there's not much to tell that hasn't already gotten passed to you throughout the day. This is projected to be a solid three days of blazing trails and slaying bodies, and if what we've fought so far is any indication, then _Holy-Emperor-above_ the body count's gonna be outrageous." He smiled as a round of oaths and cheers of affirmation rose over the ambient noise.

"So try and get some sleep – we step off at 21.30 tonight. And for your own sake, and for your _boys_," Girard grabbed his groin, "stay the frag away from those motor transport girls that have been floating around our perimeter. They smell, and you can do better. Even you, Streeter."

"Right, hold out for some pilots, or an Administratum clerk in a pinch," Johannsen said, adding to the round of laughter. Girard held up a hand, still smiling himself.

"Alright you goons, you're dismissed."

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++21.52Hrs.

Perjed's Landing. Vidal. 60.6x33.11.

Landing Strip 6A.

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The chilly night air was filled with the sounds of idling aircraft engines, distant shouting and rumbling bulk haulers. The two squads of Stormtroopers that comprised Invictus 1 and 3 stood in their own tight formations, along a section of runway dedicated to the Valkyries of Umbra Squadron. The ranks of steely-eyed, elite warriors were at full battle readiness, their faces the only exposed parts of their black-armored bodies. Weapons, equipment, medical supplies, explosives: _all_ of their battlegear was stowed snugly and well-distributed around their powerful frames. The Stormtroopers of the Elysian 33rd were ready for war.

Along with their bolters, each squad member had been issued two meltabombs, fitted with a top-mounted handle for a shot-put delivery. The cylindrical explosives would reduce all but the most heavily armored vehicles to molten slag in seconds. After forgoing their lasguns in favor of the specially designed bolters, each squad had been issued a lighter combat shotgun for sweeping through entrenched foes and inevitable house-to-house fighting. The brutal weapons were a last-minute gift from the Mechanicus; apparently Girard's visit had endeared Delta Squad to the tech-priests, Mack had informed him. He was also able to requisition another bundle of magazines for his Eclipse Custom. Streeter had been equipped with extra bandoliers of krak grenades, and Johannsen with a pack of breaching charges. He had the stock removed from his meltagun as his new squad mates had suggested; combined with his bolter and extra equipment, Johannsen was a walking weapons platform. Tonight's mission required them to tool up significantly, and they did so in true Stormtrooper fashion.

Facing the heavily armed squads were Colonel Pierce, Metzger, Girard, Mack, and Lt. Tharn of Invictus 3. Behind them was a pair of gray-green Valkyrie troop carriers, engines idling as they awaited their cargo. The Lieutenants remained behind the Colonel as he stepped forward to address his men, helmet in hand, sweeping his augmetic gaze back and forth.

"Tonight, the Liberation of Knossos begins in earnest. Best to let the men of Reyado take the spotlight, for our work tonight requires us to remain unseen. We are bringers of death, gentlemen. We move silently, stalk the shadows, and haunt the nightmares of our enemies. We own the night. Through our actions, it shall be known to these traitors that their deaths come on swift feet. And let me make it known to _you_ that SegCom requires more than just simple elimination of the enemy tonight. You must leave a trail of destruction so terrible, so utterly horrifying and barbaric in its execution, that these traitors would sooner turn their weapons upon themselves than face our fury ever again. I have no doubt in my mind that you will succeed." He paused, returning to the space ahead of the formations. Girard could see through the inky blackness that his brothers in arms positively swelled with pride.

"Gentlemen, Aquila on three. One, two, three!" He bellowed, clasping his hands behind his back. At once, the gathered Stormtroopers snapped to attention, making the sign of the Aquila across their chests:

"The Emperor Protects!" They roared. The sound echoed against the hangars in front of them. Colonel Pierce glanced over his men a final time, nodding his approval.

"Move out."

Like two pools of shadow, the squads broke formation and ran for the idling Valkyries ahead, clambering aboard, strapping themselves into their seats and mag-clamping their weapons to the roofs of the compartments. As the small runway was suddenly vacated, Colonel Pierce turned to his Lieutenants:

"As for you three, I expect even more from you." He rasped.

"Yes, sir!" They chorused. Lt. Tharn hustled away, and Girard and Mack spun 'round, slamming their visors shut and taking off in the direction of their Valkyrie.

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23.22Hrs.

Gantos – Coastal flood plains. Vidal. 86.23x11.56

##IN TRANSIT##

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The noise of the Valkyrie's engines increased tenfold as the crew hatches ratcheted open, sending a blast of icy wind into the cabin as the aircraft began their descent. This high up, the wind buffeted the occupants and tugged impatiently at loose fabric and gear. On either side of them, squadrons of Vulture gunships raced through the night sky, loaded down with thousands of pounds of high-explosive death. Below them, the coastal plains bordering Gantos stretched away in a rolling, moonlit expanse. Beyond the formations of Vulture gunships surrounding them, the strobe light flashes of artillery and armor engagements lit the night in a hellish glow, plumes of smoke and flame smearing across the silvery nightscape. As they dropped below the Vultures and rapidly descended towards the mega city's outer reaches, the booming of distant battle could be heard.

However, the site of the immense conflict was what truly dominated the surrounding landscape. Gantos sat on a swathe of raised land, strategically placed above the outlying flood plains, with the Vidal Mountain range looming far in the distance. Five tiers of concentric wide, white-washed, hexagonal rockcrete walls herded the city in, and rising above those walls were terraced blocks of buildings, increasingly huddled together as the city rose several thousand feet into the air. Girard was struck by the sheer scale of it all; in many ways, Gantos was more visually impressive than a hive city, more in terms of size and aesthetics than the teeming masses of humanity contained within, which was what Gantos lacked that kept it from being classified as such.

"If that's their idea of a _light_ orbital bombardment, I don't want to imagine what even a proper one would look like," Veidt pointed out over the plains, toward a marred segment of the city's south side. Vast craters, some of which could have comfortably fit the concourse of Perjed's Landing, pockmarked the earth for nearly three miles along the edge of the first tier. Over the blasted earth, the flash of lascannons and high explosive munitions sawed back and forth with such ferocity that surely nothing entering the no man's land had any hope of surviving.

"You know, at first I was rather chapped at being snuck in the back door like this, but I think I'll let those twelve-mile snipers just, _do their thing_ out there." Johannsen admitted over the vox, waving snobbishly out the open hatch towards the enormous battle below. Heisig, chuckled in agreement.

"Truly. I wouldn't want to be caught in the chaos, either; too many variables for my taste." He said, hefting his bolter into his lap. At the seats nearest the cockpit, Girard and Mack listened to the men make small talk. Girard checked his wrist chronometer idly.

"Two minute warning – get ready." He announced over the vox. The door gunners began to swivel in their places, scanning the rapidly approaching ground for targets with their hull-mounted heavy bolters. The Valkyrie slowed, vector thrusters changing in pitch as it prepared for landing. Their LZ took the form of a crater-pocked manufactorum, its roof long-since blasted into scrap by massed artillery strikes. The pilot steadied the craft as they descended beside the building, the prop-wash blasting dirt and grit up its façade. Deployment cables released along the edges of the craft, snaking downwards into the night.

"Let's move Delta, three by three," Girard ordered, unbuckling his restraints. Delta Squad hustled across the shifting deck, clamping themselves to the cables and leaping away. The heavy cabling made a shaky, whizzing sound as the Stormtroopers descended at a meteoric pace, boots slamming into the loose and gravelly dirt. Girard and Mack were the last to leave the Valkyrie, sliding down side by side. Girard slid expertly down the cable, impacting and disengaging from the line moments before Mack.

"Invictus 1, this is Holy Matron – everybody make it down, over?" The Valkyrie pilot voxed.

"Holy Matron, this is Invictus 1. Boots are on the ground." Girard answered. Through the cockpit canopy, he could see the pilot put his fist in the air before banking up and away.

"Affirmative, Invictus 1. Emperor guide you." The pilot gave his last encouraging words before disappearing over the nearby buildings.

Without a sound, Delta Squad fanned out across the side yard of the manufactory. Stern waved his men forward, skirting the building and slinking along a side street.

"Mack, what do you see?" Girard breathed. His advisor skidded to a halt, helmeted head panning back and forth.

"Nearest hits are a half-mile out, and closing on this location. Local power supply has been disconnected; they're lit up like an Elysian brothel." She grinned. After a moment, she spared a glance over her shoulder; the Stormtroopers were staring at her, helmeted heads cocked quizzically.

"You know the wonders of the Elysia's red sectors?" Corporal Gideon asked. Girard shook his head.

"Certainly not," she countered, earning a few chuckles as the squad pelted across the street, single file and silent. Scattered along the sidewalks and piled along the corners of the surrounding buildings were gray-swathed corpses, ten-digit numbers printed across the backs their coveralls. Their frail bodies were blasted apart by auto-fire and energy weapons; with no body armor to speak of, these men and women hadn't stood a chance.

"Brutal, just brutal." Alno shook his head as he took a long step over a twisted, bloody torso.

These unfortunates were the members of one of the Minuaros penal legions. The careless expenditure of lives along this street brought to light a more grim side of Imperial warfare. Throughout the Imperium of man, the use of convicts as human chaff was commonplace. The most dangerous, often suicidal tasks were set out for these prisoners, and when they marched into battle, the casualty rate was atrociously high without exception. To be so carelessly cast into the fray, without so much as a thought towards their safety, it was such a polar opposite to the elite, special treatment Stormtroopers received. Girard took note of Gideon's reaction to the bodies, remembering the heavy ink tattoos adorning his arms. Unable to see past the helmet's visor, he studied the cautious, deliberate body language – he guessed that the good Corporal may have once been close to serving time in such a unit.

Delta Squad moved past the bodies without a word, piling up along the other side of a rubble-strewn, 3-way intersection. They came to rest against another crumbling manufactory, its window panes smashed out by previous engagements. The rumble of treads and chugging engines became audible up the road to their left.

"Squad, clear this structure and establish overwatch positions over the road," Sgt. Stern voxed, wrenching open a bullet-riddled door to the building. Delta Squad rushed through the opening, weapons swiveling as they canvassed the darkened space. Girard and Mack brought up the rear, filing in behind their men. The manufactory was in a bad way; strewn cables and smashed machinery lay scattered about the factory floor, draped over the conveyor belts in the center of the space. Moonlight poured through the class canopy in vast blocks of silvery light, obscuring the rest in deep shadow. Girard looked up to see Delta Squad ascending a rust-pitted gantry set into the wall above them, leading to the foreman's office on the far side. He and Mack swirled up the stairs, booted heels scarcely making a sound as they followed their comrades along the gantry.

Stern was doing well. He displayed quick decision making skills, sureness of tone, and a keen eye for details. Girard was proud of his subordinate. As much as he missed his old job as Sergeant, he relegated the majority of the tactical decisions to Stern, as was expected.

"Be advised, enemy armor is approaching on our right arc," Mack cautioned, pointing across the window, and down the street to outside.

"Size and strength?" Stern asked.

"A full Squadron, Sergeant. Twelve Leman Russ battletanks, Exterminator Pattern. Three standard pattern auxiliary battletanks. It would appear as if they are bolstering their ranks with anti-personnel weaponry, in response to the penal legions' advance." Mack announced, slipping her stub gun into its holster and drawing her plasma pistol. The sound of chugging engines drifted up from a nearby block.

"They will be appearing along the street any moment now." She cautioned.

"Get ready, lads," Stern hissed, giving the signal for his men to fall into a prone firing position. On either side of the window gallery, Girard and Mack each stacked up with a member of Delta Squad, crouched along the brick window frame. Mack crouched to the left with Wulfhausen, and Girard paired up with Veidt. From their vantage point, they could see clearly down the road they had just advanced from, and out onto the rolling plains beyond. After a few moments, the first of the tanks appeared down the street.

Ugly, pig-iron plating and belching smokestacks bristled with firing slits and gun emplacements. Shuddering treads pulverized rubble and crunched bodies under their vast bulk. Bizarre, sweeping sigils and unnerving patterns swirled along the flanks of the traitorous Knossos tanks. Protruding from the turrets were pairs of twin-linked autocannons, which swiveled to and fro, scanning for targets.

"Streeter, do you have eyes on the lead?" Stern asked.

"Yes, Sergeant." he nodded, angling his weapon towards the front tank.

"Mack, can you see the rear vehicle?" Stern turned to Mack. She took a moment to crane her neck around as far as she dared.

"I cannot."

"Damn. In that case, fire on the furthest target you can see. We're going to logjam these bastards and tear them apart." He said.

"Good plan." Girard said.

"And the intersection? Can they not retreat toward the plains and rally there?" She cocked her helmet to the side.

"And expose their backs to our guns? Not likely." He countered. Delta Squad watched anxiously as the tank squadron filed down the street, running parallel to the manufactory.

"Streeter, take that target!" Stern hissed.

"Aye Sergeant. Opening fire," Streeter murmured. The thud of his grenade launcher's discharge echoed through the manufactory, and two armor-piercing rounds launched into the street below and shattered the tense silence. The turret of the lead tank shredded into pieces, and the second round punched straight into the crew compartment, causing the vehicle to swing wildly for a moment before grinding to a halt.

"Mack, open fire!" Stern shouted.

"Firing," She whispered, taking a step back and firing a round towards the rear of the armored column. Though most of Delta Squad was unable to see the round's impact, Mack smiled inside her helmet as the bolt of energy withered the battlecannon from an auxiliary tank in the rear. The driver panicked and accelerated, ramming into the tank in front of him. The tanks in between did the same, grinding and crashing into one another in a mess of sparks and twisting metal. While they certainly had units to spare, the traitor guardsmen's tactical prowess in terms of armor formations and unit spacing left something to be desired.

"Squad, weapons free, weapons free," Stern fought back the excitement in his voice. The window panes on the façade of the manufactory erupted in a riot of angry yellow muzzle flashes, the armor-piercing fusillade tearing into the sides of the traitor tanks. The Lancer rounds delivered their deadly payload, leaving glowing pinpricks of superheated metal along the hulls their targets. The attack came with such speed and ferocity that the turrets hadn't the time to pivot upwards towards their attackers. Delta Squad silenced the traitors before so much as a single round could be returned.

"Hold your fire," Stern barked. With a sense of finality, the report of their bolters echoed across the adjacent buildings, before backdrop of artillery barrages and thud of anti-aircraft fire returned.

"Was that it?" Lindemann lifted his head from his bolter sight, sparing a quick glance down at the tanks. Delta Squad remained vigilant, weapons still trained on the street below.

"Johannsen, Morrow, get down there and clear the crew compartments." Stern ordered, waving behind him.

"Aye Sergeant," They replied before pushing themselves off the floor of the gantry and racing down the stairs. They reappeared outside, ghosting up beside the nearest tank. Delta Squad watched as Johannsen primed his Meltagun and began carving out hunks of the tanks' armor, revealing their interiors to the world. As each chunk fell away, it revealed a dead crew, bodies spattered with molten adamantium. The results were consistent throughout the formation.

"We're all done here. No survivors, Sergeant." Morrow voxed up to Stern. The men relaxed by degrees, but continued to scrutinize the surrounding streets. From the center of the squad, Corporal Gideon whistled softly, and gave his bolter an affectionate pat.

"Affirmative, double back to our position." Stern breathed. He hoisted himself up from the floor.

"Squad, stand by," Girard said, lowering his plasma rifle as he focused on a point between his feet. Colonel Pierce had contacted him on a secure vox channel.

"Invictus 1, this is Invictus Actual. What is your status, over?" The Colonel's gravelly voice was difficult to understand over the background interference.

"This is Invictus 1, contact initiated with enemy armor. They're moving fast, sir."

"And the armor in question?"

"Neutralized. Zero casualties on our side." Girard said proudly. He was still trying to grow accustomed to the relaxed speech protocols over this channel; in his data packet, the Colonel had assured him that the officer-grade comms equipment was as secure as an Astartes fortress-monastery, and would be exceedingly difficult for enemy vox operators to break into. Girard trusted the Colonel's word, and trusted that the munitorum artificers knew what the hell they were doing when they built the equipment.

"Outstanding, Invictus 1. Verdant Princes 1-4 are to arrive on-site at 0200. Continue maneuvers into the 2rd tier of the city. Walk silently, and leave nothing but death and anarchy in your wake. More to come when you reach the 2nd tier. Invictus Actual out."

Girard was surprised. During their briefing, the Colonel had mentioned that, two companies' worth of Valparaiso infantry, supported by light armor would be following their advance, codenamed Verdant Prince. They were rhino-bound across the plains to secure the territory gained by his squad. He hadn't expected them to arrive until perhaps the next day, at the earliest. Girard switched back to his squad's vox channel.

"Alright, Change One, the 'raiso Infantry and armored support are crossing the plains now, instead of later; they'll be arriving in approximately," He checked his wrist chronometer. "three hours. Orders are to advance into the 2nd tier of the city, continuing our anti-armor operations all the way. Can't expose the poor things to too much carnage, can we?" He said.

"Sergeant, I would suggest moving through the manufactory floor behind us and out into the connecting street. That way provides the most direct route to the next tier." Mack offered up the suggestion. Stern flipped up his visor and reached into a side pouch of his utility belt, waving Girard forward as he unfolded a map of Gantos and laid it out on the gantry.

"Where did you find that?" Mack asked as she tugged off her helmet.

"Brochure stand at the star port; it has roads, landmarks, everything we could need laid out for us. It's useful for those of us who rely on more analog orienteering, ma'am." Girard spared a glance at her as Stern explained. She was impressed as well.

"We would appear to be here, in the Azure View district of the first tier, west side. Primarily industrial, with hab-block development closer to the retaining wall." Stern began. A mile and a half from their position was the entrance to the next tier. An enormous, ten-lane highway labeled 'The Promenade' curved into Gantos from the south, turning straight up the center of the mega-city, and running down the east end and away.

"Picking up additional movement to the east, too far out to get a clear image. It's armor for certain, though; they're spreading out." Mack stiffened, her long range auto-senses alerting her to the danger. Stern nodded.

"Duly noted. We need to keep our advance as tight as possible, punch straight through before they can overwhelm us. Nothing overly complex. These hab-blocks will provide us with a safe vantage point of the retaining wall, and allow us to plan our next move." he said, tracing a finger up the map towards their destination.

"Then we perform a straight push to the east, eventually running parallel to the Promenade and the hab-blocks." Girard murmured, scratching his chin.

"A sound plan, Sergeant. Let's get moving." Girard nodded. Stern turned to Delta Squad, still scanning the area for any further threats.

"Let's move our asses, men. We're on a tight schedule."

-][-

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++00.07Hrs.

Gantos, 1st Tier Hab-Block Sector. Vidal. 53.2x67.86.

Promenade Exit 60B. Dynasty Street.

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"Watch those windows, Delta." Girard cautioned. The Stormtroopers left the low, squat manufactories and slipped between the row houses and hab-blocks bordering the retaining wall. Still further ahead of them, looming before a sweeping, cobbled courtyard was the rest of Gantos. Its immensity stretched before them, vaguely pyramidal in shape, rough terraces of serried rooftops and smokestacks silhouetted against the moonlit sky. At the end of the courtyard, the Promenade stretched up into the dizzying heights of the city. The first retaining wall's access junction was sealed against intrusion, however; mammoth steel blast doors, several feet thick and as high as the retaining wall itself, sealed the upper tiers against vehicular traffic.

It was never easy.

Reaching up the retaining wall, on either side of the blast doors, were mesh-enclosed lift elevators and maintenance stairwells. They formed a rigid lattice up the wall, allowing limited access to the upper tiers From beside him, Mack quickly consulted her compact auspex.

"Armor is on the move again, closing fast." She voxed. Stern drew his hand across his neck, signaling her to stop speaking. He then signaled for the squad to stop, and to remain silent. This close to the enemy fortifications, their vox transmissions would almost certainly be detected.

With a series of slow, deliberate hand signals (miscommunication at this stage would be disastrous) Stern ordered the squad to split into two groups, each taking up position within the row-houses on either side of them. Girard would take Mack, Vald, Veidt, Heisig, Morrow, Postigo, and Johannsen to the right. Sgt. Stern would take Streeter, Lindemann, Alno, Gideon, Wulfhausen, and Kassin to the left. Vague grey shapes could be glimpsed crossing the courtyard in the distance, trickling through the buildings towards them. More enemy Leman Russ battle tanks, supported by an infantry screen.

At once, Delta Squad split, racing across either side of the street. Girard motioned to Johannsen, who carved away the deadbolt on the door to the nearest building, meltagun vaporizing the metal effortlessly. He kicked in the door, leading the charge into the musty, dim interior. Across the street, Stern's group was performing a similar action. Girard's group surged up the nearest stairwell to the third floor, giving them a suitable vantage point. As the rumble of tanks grew nearer, Girard crept up beside a window, gesturing across the street. Upon seeing Girard's signals, Stern's group readied their melta bombs. Girard unclipped one such bomb from his harness, arming it with a soft tap against the activation rune. The lead tank rolled through the street below him, leading an additional another squadron. On either side of the row houses, another gaggle of tanks was dispersing through the city.

Silently, Girard hurled his meltabomb at the lead tank, waving Johannsen up as he ducked back behind cover. His insides shook as a tremendous blast, followed by a blinding flash, shattered the relative silence of the street. The force of the blast pushed the tank backward onto its treads, the immense heat and pressure peeling away layers of metal and flensing away the barrel of its battle cannon. The other tanks opened fire, autocannons shredding into the Stormtroopers' cover and obliterating everything behind it in a hail of heavy caliber shells. As the dust cleared, however, there were no bodies to be found, no blood or guts belonging to the elite soldiers. The situation was the same on the other side of the road; Delta Squad was nowhere to be found.

One tank commander raised the hatch of his Leman Russ, popping up from within to stare confusedly about. He yelped in fright as two barrages of bolter fire erupted from the windows on the second story, body shuddering under multiple impacts before slumping back down into his tank. Delta Squad had quit their cover in an instant, racing down and away from the tanks' deadly attentions. A pair of Meltabombs burst along the road, melting the treads of one tank and detonating the fuel reserves of another.

Girard heard several explosions from the street on the other side of Stern's position: Streeter was laying into the tanks on the far side with his grenade launcher. Stern was demonstrating superb battle craft, splitting his forces wisely to create a wide blanket of fire and maximize enemy casualties. Girard ducked over to Mack, who was fixing a fresh energy flask to her plasma pistol.

"Mack, pursue targets to our rear, other side of the building. I trust you can handle yourself?" He whispered. Mack nodded.

"Of course. Consider it done." She confirmed, springing up and racing down the hallway and out of sight.

"Rejoin us on the ground floor when you're finished," Girard shouted after her, returning to the battle in the main street below. His plasma rifle spat its deadly payload downrange, boring through the thick armor plating of the tanks, whose turrets were beginning to rake the windows with anti-personnel rounds. He pivoted his weapon in the direction of a battlecannon-equipped Leman Russ that was attempting to sight in on his group. A trio of quick plasma bolts later, and the tank burst into flame, the billowing smoke obscuring the blue-white entry marks.

"Let's move, down to ground level," Girard called to his men, charging back across the hall and towards the stairwell. Booted feet clattered down the rockcrete steps, and Girard's group burst out into the tank-choked street. Streaks of las-fire were peppering the building at Stern's position; the infantry was closing fast, and several tanks still had some fight left in them. Veidt lead the charge past the ruined vehicles; as they neared Stern's windows, Girard called up to his Stern:

"Our cover was compromised – can you maintain your position?" He shouted, dipping behind a blown out tank as a fresh volley of autocannon rounds skittered across the armored hulls.

"Yes!" came Stern's reply, after several moments.

"Outstanding. Johannsen, decommission all salvageable armor, now," He shouted. Johannsen nodded, slung his bolter and primed his melta. He waved the deadly stream across the treads, fusing metal to asphalt. Next, he methodically sliced the turrets away, carving them into smaller pieces as he went. Girard and the rest of his group slunk past the tangle of blown-out tanks, firing between the wreckage at the oncoming foe. A battlecannon's report echoed off the surrounding buildings as the massive round detonated against a far wall, shaking Girard's men to their knees but failing to find its mark. After righting himself, Girard aimed another trio of plasma rounds at the enemy tank. A sudden lurching motion, followed by stillness was evidence enough that the tank's guns had been silenced.

"Sergeant, disregard my last – we could use your help down here," Girard shouted before sending another bolt of plasma downrange. Autocannon rounds shredded the ground beside him, kicking up miniature explosions of pavement and grit as they stitched a deadly line along the street. A final blast of bolter fire spat from the windows above and to the left. Stern's men fell back through the hab-block and down into the street. That none of his men had been hit yet was nothing short of miraculous, Girard reflected as he hunkered down behind his cover.

"Squad, initiate Eversor Pattern, ready – move!" Stern snarled as his men joined with Girard's. In a choreographed ballet of bullets and death, the Stormtroopers bobbed and weaved through the wreckage-choked street, killing quickly and efficiently while maintaining a grueling advance. With so many of their tanks destroyed, and the speed at which the silent phantoms surged through the streets toward them, the infantrymen turned to flee. The dark plaza was bathed in yellow flashes and a cavalcade of throaty muzzle blasts as Delta Squad cut their cowardly enemies down in a final burst of violence. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed since the firefight had begun.

They slowed down halfway across the plaza, after finding no further enemies to crush. Girard spun round without breaking stride after hearing light footsteps approaching from behind him. His plasma gun snapped up, pointing towards the sound. It was Mack, darting across the moonlit street with her stub gun drawn. He nodded briefly and turned back to follow his Sergeant.

"Keep moving, to the retaining wall," Stern ordered, striking out towards the lift elevators. Delta Squad followed suit, moving silently under the thunderous artillery barrage that had begun atop the tier before them. The massive rounds were not aimed at them, however, although the elevated defenders were surely aware of the disturbance below, from the amount of noise and explosions. Instead, the artillery was aimed at a point far outside the city limits. Stern signaled for another division of their forces. This time, each group pelted across the plaza and towards the lifts on either side of the Promenade. The rusty mesh cages concealed the interiors of the lift shafts and adjacent stairwells; no activity could be heard or seen from inside, but the Stormtroopers were taking no chances. Presently, Girard patted Johannsen's shoulder, holding up a finger to halt his breaching procedure on the cage door.

"Stand by," He whispered. His private vox frequency had just pinged – the Colonel had more orders for him. In the chaos wrought from their swift assault across the plaza, enemy voxcasters would be too busy screaming their confusion to one another to be watching for other frequencies.

"Invictus 1 attending – go ahead, Invictus Actual." Girard said. He motioned to Mack, adjusting a dial on his harness and piping her microbead into the conversation. Keeping her well-informed would mean the difference between success and failure tonight.

"Invictus 1, Verdant Prince elements have come under fire from localized artillery batteries along the second tier. You must silence these batteries before Verdant Prince is neutralized." The vox explained. As Girard listened, he gestured to Johannsen, then to the door; Johannsen melta'd the locks away and eased it open.

"Affirmative, Invictus Actual. We are currently beneath said batteries, and are climbing up to meet them." He replied. There was a moment of silence on the vox channel. When Colonel Pierce spoke again, his voice was stern and focused – a sign that he was greatly pleased with Delta Squad's progress.

"Duly noted. The batteries are long-range, fixed Earthshaker emplacements. Anti-air defenses were too strong for Umbra Squadron to reach them, and they must be taken out as soon as possible, but the artillery comes first – use remaining melta charges to destroy the emplacements, and check-in upon completion. Invictus out."

Mack turned to Girard:

"Everything checks out; I'm detecting substantial amounts of cordite munitions and heat sigs above. No armor to speak of, but at least a full platoon of infantry – estimated targets times 40, including artillery gunners." She explained.

"Outstanding." Girard sneered. He dialed over to his squad's vox channel:

"You get all that, Stern?" He asked. After a moment, Stern voxed:

"Sure did. This is bound to get interesting, isn't it? Alright Delta, start moving up the lifts, nice and quiet now," He said. At once, they began their ascent up the metal stairwells, rising hundreds of feet above the plaza they had just cleared. The vox was silent now as the Stormtroopers concentrated all their energies on the climb. Nearing the top, Girard's legs began to burn from the exertion, and his labored breathing filled his helmet. Upon reaching the final flight of steps, Girard called his group to a halt.

"Heisig, tell us what you can see," he passed a dull steel mirror to the newcomer, motioning towards the top landing. Heisig accepted the mirror and crawled slowly up the final flight of steps, angling it about to scan the second tier.

"Artillery ring is to our left arc, directly in front of Sgt. Stern's position. Lots of activity; they're running back and forth like a glitchy servitor. Shooters are mingled with gun crews and… the bastards…" He whispered.

"Talk to me, Heisig." Girard said slowly. He shifted in place, rolling onto his back to tilt the mirror upwards.

"Xenos are camped out along a storefront across the way. Overseeing the artillery, it would seem." he replied.

"How many?"

"Small group – six small arms operators, and a pair with lighter armor." he grunted as he struggled for a better view.

"Tell me about the two light targets," Girard shifted in place. Heisig took a moment to observe further.

"No more than shoulder pads, straps and loincloths; and no ranged weapons to speak of. Some vicious looking blades, though."

"I see. Thank you, Heisig." Girard patted his leg, and Heisig wriggled downwards.

"Majority of targets are on Stern's arc; xenos spotted on right oblique." After noting the silence on the vox, Girard consulted briefly with Stern. They had the element of surprise still, but that wouldn't be lasting much longer, so it was time to get bold. Stern's squad would emerge from their lift cage, sweeping through the gun crews and cutting down the infantry with massed bolter fire. Girard and his men would cut across their right oblique, past the gun emplacements and onto a collision course with the Dark Eldar.

"Let's rip them apart. Ready – move!" Stern growled. Delta Squad burst through the lift cages in unison, sweeping forward in a hail of gunfire. Shouts of alarm and shuffling equipment were drowned out by combined bolter fire. The artillery ring became the site of distilled pandemonium.

The top half of a frightened guardsman's head split apart from a point-blank bolter round, courtesy of Corporal Gideon. The dead man's arms seized up, dumping a box of primer charges onto the pavement. Gideon shoulder-checked another man over the parapet as he charged; the beige-suited traitor grasped fruitlessly at the air as he plummeted over the retaining wall. He racked the slide of his weapon as he dipped into a low crouch, lining up another target. His weapon barked in unison with Wulfhausen's weapon. The big man slid up beside him with Streeter in tow, forming a loose firing team. The throaty cacophony of bolter shots echoed jarringly off the façades of the nearby shops, with more of the weapons adding noise as the rest of Sgt. Stern's group brought up the rear.

The other Stormtroopers' charge coincided with the emptying of Gideon's chamber; Stern, Lindemann and Kassin rushed ahead, pumping rounds into the rallying guardsmen. One man caught a round in the chest and was hurled from his feet, his unprotected head ricocheting off the massive barrel of an Earthshaker cannon with a hollow clang. Shell casings tinkled against the rockcrete, stomped underfoot by Sgt. Stern's swift advance. They swept through the artillery ring like a black tide, leaving nothing but spent shells and twitching corpses in their wake.

On the other side of the engagement, the Dark Eldar vaulted and back-flipped over the low wall of a café, shouting indistinctly into the dark interior. A chorus of savage screams erupted from the building, followed by a squad of ragged, crimson -smeared guardsmen. They twirled their lasguns like clubs, whooping and shouting as they rushed into the street and towards Girard's group. As the unexpected reserve unit drew closer, Girard cursed softly, recognizing the substance as a diluted form of the combat drugs popular with this Dark Eldar Kabal. These xenos clearly expected them to be carrying more precision weapons like their lasguns, not such tremendously powerful boltguns. Small cauterized bullet holes could be ignored by the drug-fuelled meat shields, but when entire limbs were blasted away by mass-reactive explosives, the crazed charge was halted within seconds.

As the last of the drugged guardsmen fell, the Dark Eldar reappeared directly behind the ruined charge. Mack leapt over the body of a guardsman, and one of the armored warriors slid forward, swiping at her with its wicked bayonet. The edge of the blade bit through the armaplas plates of her body armor, tremendous strength lifting her from her feet momentarily. She backpedaled frantically, away from the deadly edge as it sought to disembowel her. Alno, not far behind, bull-rushed the offending xeno away from Mack, and before it could recover, a blue flash of plasma sliced through its chest plate and detonated its back in an explosion of fusing armor and spine fragments.

"Nice shooting, ma'am." He grunted.

Delta Squad's lucky streak continued. The xenos' numbers were small by comparison, and while they were pound-for-pound better fighters than the average guardsman, the lower ranking warriors were still no match for men of Stormtrooper caliber. They were not prepared to face such seasoned warriors, after dealing with the lesser guardsman and PDF, and word had still not gotten out about the Stormtroopers' prowess. Had the Stormtroopers been privy to their enemy's own communications, they would know that their attacks on the orbital defense guns and Perjed's Landing were rumored to have been made by battalion-sized forces. Most shocking to these vile aliens, however, was two of the Mon'Keigh's knowledge of their martial disciplines. The two Wyches in the detachment, consummate gladiators and gutter fighters, were hard-pressed to outmaneuver him when the gun battle devolved into a swirling melee.

The Eldar race experienced the universe with far more intensity than a human being, with amplified emotions, latent psychic power, and heightened situational awareness. The more skilled warriors were able to gauge their opponents' skills simply through casual observation. Girard and Postigo had learned their ways, and their knowledge made them glaring targets, whenever they were forced to join the Dark Eldar in battle. With Girard leading the charge against the Wyches' retinue, he was once again subject to their deadly attentions.

Their attention to Girard proved to be their undoing. One of the Wyches, locked in a frantic grapple with Heisig, was momentarily distracted by the presence of the superior fighter. Heisig aimed a terrific left straight punch to its head, laying open its cheek and driving it to new heights of rage. With a hiss, it turned back to its prey, only to be lifted into the air by a thunderous drop kick from Postigo. The two men seized the opportunity, drawing their sidearms and delivering a punishing volley of hotshot las-fire to the prone enemy. Its unarmored body bucked and writhed under the impacts, martial prowess all but useless when being shot repeatedly at point blank range.

The assault on the artillery ring was swift and violent, just as planned. Heaps of guardsmen lay broken and bleeding against their cannons, and the Dark Eldar overseers were silenced before they could send word ahead. While constant rumble of explosions continued, a portion of the flood plains were free from the watchful eye of Gantos' fixed artillery. The attack had yielded no casualties, although many of Girard's comrades bore scorch marks, dented armor, and bruised flesh as a result of the fierce combat. They regrouped along the café's outer wall, sweeping and clearing the interior for signs of more enemy guardsmen. Finding nothing, Stern returned the squad to the dining area. Girard flipped up his visor to address his men.

"Outstanding work – they'll soon figure out that we do indeed own the night. Keep the vox clear unless you've got no choice; they'll be listening for us now that the artillery ring is silent. Now we wait for the squawk box to speak," He whispered, tapping at his micro bead. Delta Squad hunkered down in the cafe, waiting for their next orders.

"Invictus 1, this is Invictus Actual. Checking in, over."

"Invictus 1 attending. Artillery has been cleared; minimal xeno presence discovered in this zone – all elements have been neutralized. Standing by for further orders." He said.

"Nicely done. Put the artillery pieces To The Torch." Colonel Pierce replied. There was a moment of silence on the vox, during which Girard pointed to Johannsen, then his meltagun, and then to the Earthshakers. He had no trouble putting the pieces together, and raced off toward the artillery ring. Presently, the Colonel spoke again.

"Invictus 1, orders are to perform Sanguinatus on the fallen." He said flatly. The hairs on Girard's neck rose, and a pit began to form in his guts. The Colonel's tone changed; he spoke softly, begrudgingly, even. A sense of quiet acceptance accented his words, painfully aware of the gravity of the order. After a moment, he added.

"Check in upon completion. Invictus Actual out." He finished, and the channel went silent. Girard turned to his men.

"We've been ordered to carry out Sanguinatus on the traitors. You know what to do. Mack, provide overwatch." He said quietly, stiffening his back before nodding in the direction of their vanquished enemies.

Without a word, the men of Delta Squad holstered their weapons and drew their combat knives. With Mack bringing up the rear, stub gun flitting to and fro, they left the cafe and made their way back to the artillery ring. Girard stalked past her, grip tightening on his own blade. He wished vaguely that another artillery barrage might begin nearby, to drown out the sound of what they were about to do.


	13. Shock and Awe

Girard whipped his knife through the last tendons of the Wych's mutilated neck, slicing the head free and knocking it aside. He snaked his arms up under its shoulders, pushed himself upright, and hauled the corpse across the rough pavement. As the xeno's body bounced and dragged limply along the abattoir-street, a fresh ooze of its blood gurgled from the ragged hole of its neck, spattering on the sidewalk. He backpedaled to the nearest xeno corpse, decapitated in a similar fashion, and dumped the body beside its comrade. His armor was smeared with the blood of human and xeno alike; the ground around him was like that of a slaughterhouse, positively inundated with blood.

With all the Dark Eldar corpses lined up, Girard, along with Corporals Gideon and Postigo, sliced away the armor plating on the headless warriors, ignoring the times their knives cut through to bare flesh. After stripping away the topmost armor and revealing the lily white skin beneath, Girard exhaled softly, pressing the blade against the exposed flesh and pushing until he drew blood. At once, they began to carve jagged lines into their chests with their knives. Dark blood welled up through the wounds, smearing and marring the fair complexion as they cut. There was a purpose to the savagery; a crude, two-headed eagle, constructed of gruesome, weeping gashes in the xenos' flesh began to take shape. Its wingspan stretched across their chests, terminating beside each armpit. It was the Penitent's Aquila, an ancient ritual of self-flagellation often practiced by radical members of the Ministorum and the Adeptus Astartes. When marked upon the bodies of the fallen, it was a telling sign of what awaited the victims' surviving comrades: swift and invariably bloody justice at the hands of the Emperor's servants.

After carving up the bodies of the Dark Eldar, Girard rose to his feet. He beckoned to Corporal Gideon, who reached toward a bundle of captured weaponry and handed it to him. As Gideon added the finishing touches to the bodies, Postigo followed Girard to the nearest lift cage, carrying the severed heads by the hair. Girard set the monomolecular blades and detached bayonets at his feet, keeping one blade in hand. He held out the other hand to accept the first head from Postigo. He then lined the head up along a corner support beam, taking aim with the blade. With a short jab, it passed through the forehead of the dead xeno and imbedded itself in the support beam, pinning it in place. The other heads received a similar treatment, creating a grisly totem along the lift cage.

The rest of Delta Squad silently went about their apportioned task, filling the air with sounds of metal sawing through flesh and bone. Along the parapet, the bodies of the traitors were lined up, face-down with their heads hanging over the long drop-off. Each Stormtrooper opened the neck of a dead guardsman, emptying their arteries along the retaining wall. The effect was as striking as it was gruesome. Sweeping gouts of blood stretched down the white-washed retaining wall like crimson fingers, staining the bright surface and pooling along the seams in the rockcrete. Their weapons were lined up along the destroyed Earthshaker emplacements, and met a similar fate at the hands of Johannsen's meltagun.

This act of brutal psychological warfare was known as Sanguinatus. It was often used in campaigns where breaking the enemies' will to fight was just as important as breaking them physically. In the case of planetary rebellion, the bodies of the rank and file troops were given little attention; a simple throat slitting was punishment enough. As for the leadership, they were made a special example. By receiving the most striking butchery, in this case decapitation and the Penitent's Aquila, the performers of Sanguinatus demonstrated that none were safe from the Emperor's wrath. This scene of post-mortem carnage would conjure up horrific delusions of their unseen enemies, and serve as a sign to the Imperial forces that the area was secure.

"Invictus Actual, this is Invictus 1. Sanguinatus complete, and awaiting further orders." Girard announced on the secure channel. The reply came quickly:

"Affirmative, Invictus 1. To prepare for Verdant Prince's arrival, you must open the Tier 1 auxiliary gate you just bypassed." Colonel Pierce explained.

"Six blocks from your current position is an Administratum public works office – it will be easy to identify. Beneath the structure is a localized security command bunker. The controls to open the gate are inside. I will relay all relevant tactical data to Lieutenant Maksachova. Proceed with caution." He concluded.

"Affirmative, Invictus Actual. Invictus 1 out." Girard closed the vox.

.

.

.

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++01.08hrs.

Gantos. 2nd Tier. Public office block 3B. Vidal. 53.2x67.86.

Administratum Annex.

.

.

Slinking along the sidewalk, Delta Squad made their way through the moonlit streets of the second tier. As they advanced, conversation was non-existent. When Sanguinatus was performed, it always had a way of silencing the bravado of its practitioners. Vald and Alno seemed especially sickened at their recent actions. Johannsen and his burly counterpart had helped Alno to his feet after vomiting across the pavement; the stench and sounds of their work had become too much for him to bear. Girard dropped back beside Mack near the center of the squad, and let Stern take the lead.

Signs of rioting became more and more obvious as they followed Mack's directions to the gate controls. Smashed window panes, sloppy graffiti and looted storefronts told of a sudden burst of violent rebellion on Knossos. Who knew what manner of sorcery these xenos used to stir up the populace – but was it truly responsible for all this destruction? Humans were, as a collective, violent and stupid creatures. It didn't take a scholem graduate to know that. Though it pained him to think it, even with seeds of rebellion planted by the Dark Eldar, it didn't take much provoking to turn an entire planet of once-loyal humans into a mindless mob. Mack's voice pulled him from his thoughts:

"I'm getting Intermittent energy readings, difficult to identify. There's too much interference to get a clear picture." She frowned, flicking through filters on her auspex. Presently, Stern ordered Delta Squad to cross the street ahead of them, weapons trained upwards at the darkened windows. They darted around planters and past stacked containers, breaking up their formation; bunching up this close to the enemy would be unwise. Several moments later, Mack spoke again.

"Strange…" She murmured. Girard turned to her, finding himself wishing he could see through her visor to the facial expression beneath.

"What is it?"

"It seems like these readings keep slipping in and out of range." She said. After a moment, she blurted out, her voice suddenly laced with panic.

"Someone's following us," She blurted out, her words racing to arrive before the threat itself.

There was a flash of movement behind and to the left of the Stormtroopers. A riot of shouting erupted on the vox, followed by sporadic bolter shots. Girard spun round to see ebony-clad figures slipping from between the buildings across the street. Some smaller warriors flanked a squad of power-armored, glaive-wielding Incubi. Delta Squad responded by opening fire. A pair of warriors and a single Incubus fell to the fury of the Lancer rounds, but the rest closed quickly. Stern called out for the whole squad to form a defensive line; Girard pulled the stock of his plasma gun into the pocket of his shoulder and took his position. Delta Squad formed up along the sidewalk to meet their enemies' charge head on.

The crash of carapace on power armor echoed across the buildings like a flurry of thunderclaps as the two sides joined in battle. One xeno hacked open Kassin's helmet with a vicious downward swipe with its power glaive, sending a crimson arc spraying from the wound. He dropped to the ground, all the high quality armor and advanced training turning to nothing more than expensive dead weight. Their disciplined line quickly dissolved into another swirling melee as soon as the Incubi closed, but despite the first casualty they were ready. A low-flying pole arm swept Girard's feet from beneath him before he could react; he pitched backward into the pavement with a muffled grunt. He looked up to see a white-helmed Incubus glaring down at him with emotionless eye slits, jabbing with its power glaive. He rolled inside its guard, the point of the blade ramming into the pavement where his throat had rested a split second before. He fired his plasma gun into its groin, lifting it off its feet as the focused bolt of energy vaporized its innards and exploded from between its shoulder blades.

Girard surged to his feet, resuming his place in the battle. He rose just in time to see Postigo impaled on the end of a power glaive. The Stormtrooper was lifted from the ground by the Incubus's incredible strength, his body sliding down to the cross guard before halting. From beside him, Wulfhausen saw his plight, quickly dispatched his nearest foe and rushed to his Postigo's aid. An incoming warrior slammed the stock of its rifle into the side of his helmet, and he skidded sideways to the ground.

The triumphant xeno regained its grip on its weapon and charged at Postigo, still held aloft by his opponent. A growl of rage burst from his helmet, and he gripped the haft of his assailant's weapon before drawing his pistol. As the other warrior closed distance, he aimed sideways and exploded its face with a point-blank las bolt. With the warrior tumbling to a stop beside him, he dragged himself along the blade, inching closer to its owner. He let the pistol clatter to the pavement and reached out to the now frightened Incubus, who lowered its crazed human prey and was now trying desperately to remove it from its weapon. His hand found purchase on its chest plate, and he pulled his helmet off and away with his free hand. He wrenched as many grenades as he could from his harness and punched them into his opponent's midriff. He pressed his forehead against the expressionless faceplate of the Incubus, blood bubbling from between his clenched teeth.

"I'll see you in Hell, Witch." He snarled. The ensuing explosion shredded them both into pieces, and peppered the surrounding area with flickering shrapnel. A nearby warrior received the brunt of the blast, and toppled to the pavement with fistfuls of jagged metal in its flesh.

After Kassin's sudden death, and the loss of Postigo, Delta Squad was no longer simply fighting to win the engagement. They rallied against the xenos, galvanized by their losses, and fell on them like starving predators on helpless prey. Cpl. Gideon caught an Incubus around its slender waist, hauling it off its feet and smashing it backward into the ground. It punched swiftly at him as it fell, but the Corporal was a gutter fighter at heart, and rolled expertly away from each strike. It lashed out with its armored knee, doubling him over before writhing back and pinning him back against the ground. Before it could exact its revenge, it shuddered briefly, snarling obscenely inside its helmet before the power plant in its power armor died and it fell limp across his chest. Not caring to stop and question this turn of events, Gideon quickly rolled the body off of him and rose to his feet. He stood up to see Morrow standing over him, las-pistol in hand. He offered his thanks by drawing his own pistol and obliterating the face of a warrior charging his fellow Stormtrooper from behind.

The battle quickly turned against the xenos. Though they were finally blooded, the Stormtroopers fought no more fiercely. The sheer destructive power of their weapons gave them the edge they needed to cut down the remaining foes before they could retreat. Mack struck the final blow, scattering the skull of the last Incubus against the pavement with her plasma pistol.

"Clear," She shouted as she watched the wispy fragments of its skull come to a stop, sizzling with plasma scoring. With no small amount of satisfaction, she added:

"Squad, regroup on me." Girard shouted into the sudden silence. His men pulled themselves away from the bodies of the Dark Eldar. He did a quick head count, frowning inwardly as he inevitably came up short.

"Status, everyone?" He rolled his shoulder, in an attempt to rid himself of the ache. A series of positive reports filled the air. None of the surviving Stormtroopers were injured. To his left, Lindemann removed his helmet, revealing his sweat-stained countenance.

"Have a look at this," He slapped Heisig's shoulder guard, gesturing to his gear. A single splinter round had penetrated the left temple of the helmet, the lethal point burrowed past the interior wiring and coming to rest mere centimeters from where his head would have been. Heisig's helmeted head bobbed in admiration, and he let his bolter fall on its sling before making the sign of the Aquila and thumping his chest. Lindemann ran a gloved hand against his head, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Right, then. Streeter, Gideon, activate Soul Beacons on the fallen. Then we move out." Stern ordered, hoisting his bolter into position and meeting Girard's stare. They both saw the smoldering rage boiling just within their control. Postigo had been with Delta Squad from the beginning, but mourning his loss would have to wait until another day. For now, they had a friend's death to avenge.

Girard eyed his surroundings: the surrounding streets appeared empty. There was a significantly smaller armor presence in this tier, though the upper reaches of Gantos still flickered with cannon fire. While his Corporals reached into their comrades' armor and activated the infra-red beacons that would allow for post-engagement retrieval of their bodies, Stern ordered the rest of his squad to turn their bloody attentions to the freshly dispatched group of foes. Girard slung his plasma rifle and stooped down to saw through the neck of the nearest Dark Eldar, wrenching the helmet from its head as he cut. Orders were orders, and if any of the foes deserved such treatment, it was those who dared to slay his brothers in arms.

Several bloody minutes later, Sanguinatus was complete. This time, there was no orderly arrangement of the bodies; the dead were scattered haphazardly across the ground, without a care given as to their presentation. The effect could be argued as equally, if not more effective, than their first application. In any case, matters more pressing than mere terror tactics awaited them. Delta Squad resumed their mission, slinking down the streets of lower Gantos.

Presently, their objective became visible down the block; it was a tall, imposing building, constructed in High Imperial style with the emblem of the Administratum emblazoned along its brick façade. Delta Squad rallied beside the fire exit of an abandoned row-house, this one leaps and bounds beyond the first tier buildings, in terms of construction and decorum. The Administratum building lay just across the street, boldly displaying itself in the moonlight.

"Take a look at this," Mack put a hand on Girard's shoulder,and called Stern over as well. Stern nodded, and ordered the squad into a standard Guardian pattern while he consulted with Mack.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Do either of you find it odd that the gate controls are not guarded?" She pointed down the street. She was right: if this building housed the controls to the lower tier gate, it was left strangely unprotected. The front doors were shut, the windows dark and empty. Mack then flicked through a filter on her auspex, revealing an elongated blob of energy signatures not twenty feet from their location, crisp and high-resolution.

"However, they do have eyes on it." She added, pointing up the side of the building beside which they now stood.

"Well played," Girard mused, considering their next course of action. The further they penetrated into Gantos, the more their enemies appeared to organize. Whether it was a simple distribution of talented troops, or a sign that word was spreading of their exploits, remained to be seen.

"How many are there?" Stern asked.

"Difficult to say. At least two full platoons." She squinted at the rounded peaks of light on the display. Stern scooted up beside her, tapping the screen.

"They're spread out, and these readings are holding rather still. Looks like a typical night watch rotation, wouldn't you say?" He asked. Stern agreed.

"Our approach thus far has been one of boisterous violence; might I suggest a silent takedown for this lot?" Mack whispered. Girard and Stern were quiet for a moment.

"Explain." They said together.

"Shock and Awe has been the plan of the day, I realize, but now our task is to open the way for Verdant Prince. Would you not agree that the 'swift and silent' approach should resume, now that our immediate goal does not necessarily involve terrorizing the enemy?" She offered. Girard stared at his advisor, nodding appreciatively at her sound logic.

"A wise plan. Now, can that gadget tell you what floor they're on?" Stern pointed to the auspex in her hand. She nodded, and tapped at a series of keys along the side of the device. The display screen shifted subtly, the oblong shape spun and condensed into a rough circle, and the spidery lines of a floor plan appeared on the screen. The building was divided into three separate 'blocks' of hab-units, with a causeway encircling the edges and bisected by two shorter parallel hallways.

"They're about fifty five feet above ground. Fourth floor, would you say?" She glanced up the side of the building, mentally counting the number of support beams that jutted from the front face.

"Agreed. We'll approach from the rear causeway, and advance up these two halls here:" He pointed to two spaces in the floor plan where short hallways bisected the building. It was there that the fire teams would rest between rotations.

"Mack, why don't you follow Stern's group this time? We'll see you soon." Girard said quickly, gesturing to the group he had lead up the lift elevator and waving them into the building. Stern's group followed suit, piling through a side entrance and ghosting up the stairs of the row house. Stern's group went ahead of Girard's, continuing down trash-filled causeway on the ground floor to ascend the opposite stairwell. As Girard padded silently up his own staircase, he felt a familiar trill of excitement in his chest at the prospect of an up close and personal battle. Thus far in the Knossos campaign, there had been plenty of opportunities to showcase his unarmed talents, and tonight was proving to be no exception. And with a fresh volley of artillery delivering their payloads from yet another higher tier, their booted footsteps were completely concealed.

Upon reaching the top floor, Girard noted a pair of Guardsmen posted at each end of the space, just over a hundred feet away from one another. His men knew what to do. Lindemann and Streeter lunged past him, falling on their prey with admirable, calculated savagery. Two blades slashed towards the armpits of their trigger arms, severing the tendons and rendering their weapons useless. They followed with a vicious follow-up slice to the throat, a split second after the first cut. Their bewildered targets spun 'round; neither man had time to cry out before they were pulled to the floor, gurgling softly as hot blood splashed down their flak plates. The Stormtroopers straddled their opponents, perforating their diaphragms with flurries of short, powerful jabs, and rupturing vital organs. Such was the ferocity of the attack that chunks of flesh were sent flying each time the serrated knifes withdrew.

Within seconds, the Guardsmen were finished. Lindemann and Streeter performed the killing blows, flaying the flesh of their throats apart with wicked slashes, sending a fine spray of crimson across the plastered walls before plunging them up into the skull cavity, via the chin. These two guardsmen were now officially, thoroughly dead. As a final touch, Streerer drew his blade from its intended resting place, instead opting to plunge it through the eye socket of his foe. He twisted it back and forth, earning gruesome, post-mortem thrashes from the traitorous Guardsman.

"Enough," Girard hissed. Streeter wrenched the blade free, wiping the sticky blood off on the dead man's sleeve. Girard put a hand on his shoulder as he rose to his feet.

"I want to avenge Postigo much as you do, Declan. But _restrain_ yourself." He cautioned. Using Streeter's first name seemed to shock him into obedience.

"Sure," He breathed, and slipped his knife back into its sheath.

Down the hall, Stern's group had dealt with their targets simultaneously without incident. The squad regrouped and huddled around Mack's auspex, shielding the surrounding area from the light it emitted when she brought up a holo-display. With their orders fresh in their minds, Delta Squad set off in search of more blood to spill. The hab-units along these short hallways were the converted bunk rooms that the Guardsmen would sleep in while they weren't on watch. The bunks would soon become their graves.

Distant voices alerted Delta Squad to the street-side Guardsmen ahead. Girard slowed his group's approach, crushing himself against the baseboard as closely as he could to minimize his profile. His group was the perfect size to eliminate the sleeping Guardsmen efficiently. With only three bunkrooms occupied in this hallway, they would go by twos. He waved Streeter and Morrow into the first room before continuing with Veidt, Heisig, and Johannsen and in tow. Behind him, the two Stormtroopers eased the frail, wooden door open and slid inside. Nothing but silence. Satisfied that his men were handling things, he pointed to Heisig and Veidt. He then pointed to another door across the hall, and they too melted into the darkness, leaving only Girard and Johannsen to take the last room.

They moved to their door, but a sudden movement down the hall made them freeze. They watched with baited breath as the silhouette of a Guardsman traipsed past the end of the hallway, the greasy plume of a lho stick trailing from between his teeth. After the man had passed, they remained still, just in case. After a suitable amount of time had passed, Girard let out a shuddering breath of relief, and patted Johannsen on the shoulder.

"Let's move."

The door to the bunk room swung open, they rushed in, and the soft chatting of the card-playing Guardsmen halted. Girard's heart skipped a beat as the three men clustered around an upturned, heavy-gauge cable spool turned to face the newcomers. Three dirt-smeared faces twisted in confusion, dimly lit by glow-lamp hung from the ceiling. The two groups regarded one another, traitor and loyalist alike temporarily dumb-struck by one another's unexpected presence. Whether the moment had lasted a millisecond, or stretched on for several minutes, Girard would never truly be able to say. But it was Johannsen who broke the tense silence.

Johannsen swept his hand out as he rose up, and a sharp flicker of light scythed across the gulf of space between him and the rear-most Guardsman. The man wheezed, clutching at the hilt of a combat knife that had suddenly appeared in his neck. The sharp screech and clattering of upended chairs filled the room, the remaining traitors simply too shocked to shout the alarm. The one closest to Johannsen made an attempt, but was denied the opportunity as the he plowed his fist into his throat, middle knuckle extended to crush his windpipe. His other fist crashed into the man's bare head, toppling him to the floor as he leapt over the spool to retrieve his knife.

Girard shut his man up with a vicious uppercut, reversing the blow and slamming his head into the spool/table. Cards and half-finished canteens leapt from the sudden impact and the guardsman's hands swiped at the surface as Girard plunged his knife through man's temple. He flinched as something hit him gently across his shoulder, and he spun 'round to face the threat. Behind him, just inside the door, were the sleeping Guardsmen. He looked down to see a half-folded pillow resting at his feet; the occupant of the top bunk closest to him had tossed it, but had remained in bed, facing away from the scuffle. Fights like this must have arisen often, when card games were involved. A feral grin split his features as he adjusted the grip on his knife, and surged toward the bunks. He reached up to tap roughly at the pillow-flinger's head.

"Burcham, fraggin' quit, you mother-whoring, shite-shoveling, little…" the man spun in place, turning to face that greasy little miscreant that had so rudely poked him, no doubt asking to borrow another wad of lho sticks to gamble with. Well, he was having none of that nonsense. He rubbed his eyes, ready to rain down a slew of particularly vile oaths he had been saving up for just such an occasion. But when his vision cleared, he found that it wasn't his friend at all.

"Hi there," The masked fiend announced through its faceplate; its voice came out sounding muffled and nasal. The man's eyes widened to the size of saucers, and before he could shriek in terror he felt gloved hands at his throat, throttling the life from him. All he could muster was a startled:

"Gak!"

Monstrously powerful muscles dragged the Guardsman kicking and flailing from his bunk like a ragdoll, blankets tangled around his bare feet. Girard hurled his prey into the floorboards, earning a terrified grunt of pain, and rammed the heel of his boot into the man's brain pan. From the doorway, he vaguely noticed two more black shapes racing inside. They descended upon the final Guardsman as he rose from his bunk, muttering curses and reaching blindly for his lasgun. The sounds of metal tearing flesh signaled his demise. Girard rose to his feet, his foe vanquished.

"Clear. Well done, gents." Girard panted.

"We're done here," Stern said over the vox. Their execution had gone off without a hitch, and they reassembled for their final push out to the street side causeway. As they slunk back out into the darkened hall, Girard briefly wondered if Mack's enhanced strength and speed had left anything for Stern and the men to do. But more important thoughts pushed their way into prominence, like the fact that no one had heard the scuffle in his room. Though it was a strange thought indeed, he found himself rejoicing in the traitors' lack of discipline and nonchalance in the face of disorderly conduct. Assaulting a fellow guardsman over a card game would have earned him a public flogging back on Elysia at the very least, and probably time in the brig. He was pulled from his thoughts again by Mack.

"We're standing by, Lieutenant." She whispered. Girard turned to his men, now lurking in the doorways on either side of the hall, waiting with blades drawn.

"Copy that, we're in place. Targets times eight. Confirm?" He voxed. A number of Guardsmen were leaning against the wide window sills, beside a pair of sill-mounted heavy bolters. Boxes of explosive ammunition sat open beside them – a boon to the bolter-equipped Stormtroopers, but a potential deathtrap if las-bolts started flying. He would have to compliment Mack on her decision to remain 'swift and silent.'

"Confirmed, sir. Targets times eight. Engage!" Stern hissed into the vox. They emerged from their corners and surged into the street-side hallway, bowling over the stragglers and slamming into the gaggle of guardsmen. A staccato of las-fire stitched a line through the ceiling by Mack's position as its operator was borne down by Alno. Girard winced as the discharge pierced the night air – he prayed that their cover hadn't been blown.

Soon, the attack was over. These men were considerably more fit than their smaller brethren, no doubt from hauling their heavy weapons to and fro. Against conditioned troops like those of Delta Squad, however, there was no contest. The cramped quarters of house-to-house fighting were their element, and they were truly masters of their craft.

"Clear," Girard silenced a shuddering traitor by planting the heel of his boot in the back of his head.

"On to the control bunker, then." Stern gestured out the window, to the Administratum building across the street. He glanced down at his wrist chronometer:

++01.47hrs.

"Alright, we're running out of time. Verdant Prince will be on its final approach now, so we need to redouble our efforts. Mack, you're our best candidate for working the controls – you and your men will come with me to get the gates open. Sir," He turned to Girard. "I need your group to provide overwatch while we move in. No sense in us all piling in at once." He said. Mack sheathed her matte-black combat knife, and drew her stub gun.

"Affirmative. Let's move," she turned on her heel and hustled towards the nearest stairwell, her slight form quite nearly devoured by the bulk of the Stormtroopers. As the sound of booted heels echoed down the stairs, Girard addressed the whole squad over the vox.

"Sergeant, may I offer a suggestion?"

"Certainly, sir." Stern said.

"If we continue to divide our squad like this, let's come up with actual call-signs." He said. After a moment of silence, Stern replied:

"Squad Burkhalter and Squad Stern, how's that sound?" He said. Girard smiled

"I like it."

"I like keeping things simple." Stern said as his men ghosted across the street. As they advanced, Mack devoted an iota of her cranial augmetics' processing power to creating a revised squad roster:

Back at the row house, the roof provided a commanding view of the flatlands surrounding Gantos, and the distant shores of the Knossos' northern ocean. Girard scratched at his head with the corner of his macro binoculars, helmet cradled in the crook of his free arm. The constant flashing of artillery, and the battles taking place on the far side of the mega-city were making spotting Verdant Prince rather difficult, what with all the flashing, foundation-rattling explosions and bomb blasts. Veidt was watching the streets ahead, las-rangefinder in hand mapping the surrounding area.

They both spared the occasional glance up to the highest reaches of the city, toward the fifth tier citadel that housed the nerve center of this continent's resistance. Angular, reinforced bunkers and redoubts bristling with armaments surrounded a colossal central tower complex. The lower areas were lost to perspective, but the battlements of the citadel were alight with the sporadic flash of anti-aircraft turrets and long-range artillery batteries. A long climb awaited them.

Their attention turned away from the summit of Gantos, to the edge of the second tier. The lower reaches of the mega-city echoed with the ponderous groan of colossal gears grinding into life. Neither man could see it, but they knew that it was the sound of the lower tier gates swinging open to welcome Verdant Prince.

"Ah, it's about time. Let's just hope the Grand Old Infantry are on time." Veidt said with a characteristic sneer.

"One can always hope," Girard said. Presently, Mack's voice flowed into the vox.

"Squad Burkhalter, this is Squad Stern. The way is open for Verdant Prince."

"Yes, we heard." Girard said. Another objective accomplished, and more heaps of enemy corpses at their backs. Mack's voice returned, with a hint of concern this time.

"The auspex is picking up large quantities of promethium and cordite concentrations – more armor is inbound. Contact estimated in five minutes, at their rate of approach." She said. Girard cursed under his breath, stowing his binoculars and hefting his plasma gun into place. Veidt followed him to the parapet, staring out over the streets of the second tier.

"I retract my earlier statement," Veidt cast a sidelong glance at Girard as they steeled themselves for battle.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Now I hope they're early." He racked the slide on his bolter. Girard placed a hand on the top of his plasma gun, feeling the power cells thrumming happily in their reinforced housing.

"As do I, Veidt."


	14. Prying Eyes

Far removed from the violent uprising on Knossos, and further still beyond the war-torn galaxy in which it was being brutally repressed, there existed a realm that was altogether different. Pulsing corridors of light and color weaved between the jarring ugliness of reality and the treacherous shoals of warp space, nowhere and everywhere all at once. In its uncharted, labyrinthine passageways and endless tributaries, those able to harness its power could travel at speeds beyond the wild imaginings of mortal creatures. By constantly skirting the boundaries of physics and at times violating them altogether, travelers of the realm known only as the Webway could traipse across the galaxy at will, throwing restrictive concepts like time and distance to its ethereal winds.

It was a place of secrets too terrible for most mortal minds to know, and its twisting corridors of light were certain to lure foolish explorers into an eternity of maddening confusion and ceaseless wandering. For the psychically gifted, peering into its bizarre structure was exceedingly difficult, except for those with millennia of experience and the incalculable knowledge of their ancestors to aid them. Where the Warp was like a looking glass, easily used and ever eager to invite tasty soul-morsels into oblivion, the Webway was more akin to a hazy mirage – certainly not invisible, but tantalizingly out of reach. Observing the ether-realm was often done purely by accident, the result of an over-taxed mind's eye letting down its guard. It was just such an event that alerted a group of Webway travelers to the plight of Knossos, the unspeakable evil at the heart of the bloody conflict, and a group of souls that might just be able to help set things right.

From deep within the dazzling, cyclopean depths of the Webway, something was coming.

-][-

Ghostly images flickered through a vast, round chamber, illuminated by a harsh pillar of light. Swirling within the light were tales of carnage and vile atrocities that played out before a rapt audience, a secretive crowd that watched from the shadows:

There was ugly machinery, distinctly Mon'Keigh in manufacture, travelling by the thousands and blackening the surface of Knossos. However, several points of light were still visible, growing larger and rallying against the encroaching darkness. Inside this darkness were towering cities of jagged and primitive architecture. There was a fortress on the summit, gone dark with evil. But most of all, most universal, there was unending suffering and pain. The images worked backward through time, and the suffering and decadence touched the souls of the silent observers. The Mon'Keigh were notorious for their application of heavy-handed morality, which more often than not served to amplify their wild, savage nature.

But this was different. These emotions were born of depthless hedonism and wild abandon, striking a painful chord in the minds of those that watched this psychic story-weave.

The audience was growing uncomfortable from the eerily familiar excess that flowed into them from the viewing, and the temperature of the space began to plummet. Strange sensations clawed up through their guts, chilling their blood: Desires, dark and gritty and ugly and lustful, surged through the dark space and churned up sinful thoughts and malicious schemes.

Murmurs of shock and disgust darted around in the darkness, and the images made a complete about-face. The lurking fear bled away, and the space was dominated by a group of black-armored warriors, faces hidden behind primitive filtration masks. The souls of the two at their center were exceptionally bright: The essence of one was proud, calculating, and devoted. The other radiated strength, fearlessness and possessed a rare kindness that was almost unheard of in its kind. This final image lasted only a moment, but it resonated in the minds of the viewers nonetheless. In an instant, the story-weave expended itself into the air, leaving behind a swirl of dust in the center of the light. Now, nothing but the nigh-inaudible hum of distant reactors and life support systems filled the echoing theater.

"_Ooooh_, what frightening visions! Truly, the stuff of nightmares!" A figure, spindly and humanoid, melted out of the blackness and sauntered into the pillar of light. Its tone dripped with sarcasm, tempered with mischievous possibility. Behind a silvered, expressionless mask, its face was unreadable. Gilded charms and strands of lustrous trinkets dangled from the figure's aristocratic wrists, neck, and waist, tinkling happily as it moved. The boisterous checker patterns of its clothing bloomed to retina-searing intensity in the pale light, and an iridescent Mohawk, immaculately manicured, topped the dark flesh of its head.

"Speak up, speak up! What do we make of all this? Let's not all jump up and speak at once, now." It twirled a gleaming stiletto around its fingers, the individual digits blurring with incredible dexterousness as it played.

Another figure stepped in across the way, its identity also hidden behind a mask. While the first figure was the personification of gaudiness, a veritable riot of violent hues and metallic shine, this one was its polar opposite. A floor-length coat of deepest blackness absorbed the light around its towering frame, and its mask was one molded into a slender, howling skull. The sound of its footsteps pealed outward like thunder, echoing into the unseen void mere steps outside the pillar of light.

"It makes me cringe," it boomed, an air of snobbish disgust accenting its thunderous voice. The first figure took a step back, allowing its comrade the floor. The massive figure plucked at its collar before folding its powerful arms across its chest.

"If this is their idea of a joke, it's not funny. Not one bit." It shook its head quickly, hip cocked in such a comical fashion that anyone unaccustomed to its mannerisms would be lead to believe the flamboyant giant was all flash and no fury. To believe so would be a grave and fatal mistake.

"I'd be content to see their asinine scheme backfire – which it will, make no mistake – that I may laugh when the Prince of Pleasure guzzles their rotten souls." It added with a flourish of its gauntleted hand:

"It would be poetic justice in its most amusing form."

"And what _then_? Let that soul-drunk monstrosity use its newfound power to consume the Mon'Keigh as well? Where does it end?" Another voice, this one distinctly female, cut through the blackness.

"Always a full act ahead of the rest of us, Olaila," The skull-faced figure cocked its head to the side and placed its hands on its hips.

"Gah! _Shlaereen_ is here to spoil the mood, as always." The first figure whined, using the native term for 'silent death'. He winced as the careless toying with the blade pricked his finger.

The newest speaker stepped into the light, and the other two fell silent. This one was similar in proportion to the first. Instead of the riotous color scheme, her form-fitting suit was embroidered with a grid of fine black diamond patterns, and striated with swirls of white diamond shapes. A molded, porcelain mask of pinched cheek bones and a mischievous grin obscured her face, and a tight ebony ponytail stood away from her athletic form.

"I do what I must." She shrugged.

"Olaila is right," Yet another voice emerged from the darkness. A fourth figure stepped into the light – another male, stripped to the waist, with magnificently decorated robes billowing behind in a most dramatic fashion. Its arms were draped over a long, angular staff across his shoulders, humming with repressed psychic energy.

"The true issue is that around here, common sense appallingly scarce." He turned to the skull-faced figure, who scoffed loudly at the thinly veiled accusation. "You would allow a caged daemon prince to run free, grow fat on the souls of its hapless victims, simply for the satisfaction of them getting their comeuppance? Keep your idiotic fantasies to yourself, Belkann." He snorted.

"What should we do? We have our exposition, let's get_ on_ with it," The first figure shot back. In the time the newcomer had taken to chastise his comrade, the mohawked eccentric had proceeded to contort his body in amusing ways, slapping at the floor from back between his own legs and giggling to himself.

"I would hear of Olaila's plan – operating on the assumption that she is here for more than simple nay-saying, of course." The newcomer said, eyes narrowing behind a snarling mask of beaten brass.

"_I_ propose we take a small Troupe planet-side, reconnoiter a bit. Avoiding the inevitable Mon'Keigh armada would be a simple matter." She explained, pacing the lit area with silent footsteps. The eccentric one made a loud flatulent sound with its mouth.

"Shlaereen just wants to take her little pets and have all the fun, slink and slide around like they do," It grumbled, reaching up and around to scratch its stomach. Belkann chuckled as he watched his comrade's antics. Olaila crossed her arms.

"Actually, I was going to suggest you pick a handful of your favorite Troupers and come with us, Khieran. Of course, if you're too busy scratching your-" She began, a wry grin forming behind her mask.

"No!" He wailed, whipping back up from between his legs to a standing position.

"No?" Olaila echoed. "Well then, we could use your help. Cause some mayhem, clear the way for us silly little Shlareen and let us do the boring work. If things go well, we storm the Fortress on the Summit, and you can all have yourselves some fun." She smirked. For one as well-versed in politics and subterfuge as she, Khieran was easily manipulated. He yelped excitedly and performed an astonishingly high flat-footed leap. He stuck the landing with ethereal grace and clapped maniacally.

"Oh, dear! This will be a most _naughty_ caprice!" He positively quaked with anticipation, every lithe muscle in his body tensed and quivering with barely restrained excitement.

"And what of us?" Belkann asked. Olaila shrugged, turning to her future partner in crime.

"What say you, Khieran? Should we include the Margorach in the cast?" She asked playfully. Including Death Jesters in a reconnaissance mission was probably unnecessary, but social strictures demanded she at least ask her fellow commander.

"But of course, those great big guns of theirs keep the distance! They're bound to have plenty of big guns themselves, yes? Without our own, the composition would be ruined, if you ask _me,_" Khieran looked up from a hand-stand to see Olaila nodding slowly, clearly shocked at the unusually insightful remark.

"Then it's settled. We'll have to take the Vampire transport, since we're putting on such a big performance. Not ideal for a quiet set-up, but we can make it work." She murmured.

"I suppose the High Avatar will address any glaring flaws in the script. As for us, I think we'll stay aboard, let you lot have your fun." The shirtless one remarked, spinning on his heel and strutting out of the circle. A white rectangle of light opened across the tiny bridge that spanned the void, leading back to the rest of their ship. As he left earshot, Olaila muttered:

"Just as well."

"Alright, everyone – make a quick dress rehearsal, then meet in the launch bays in ten? Yes?" She glanced about at the remaining speakers. Belkann nodded and swept past her, heading for the door. Khieran let out a whoop of excitement, which she took as a suitably positive response. He too bounded towards the exit, leaving Olaila standing by herself in the conclave circle.

The door in the distance closed, and a flurry of near-inaudible rustling issued from somewhere up above. From around the light, a score of similarly garbed Mimes slipped from their hiding place high above in the blackness of the colossal support vertex-turned-conclave chamber. They slipped into the light and began congregating around their commander, sauntering towards her with silent footsteps.

"Nothing further, my friends. Let the Troupers cut through the extras, while we eliminate the main cast – and then we'll see about those two anomalies from the 'weave. Simple enough, yes?" She looked around at her subordinates, who remained posed all around her, gazing in rapt silence. They understood.

With their solar sails billowing in the ethereal winds, the Wraithship of the Harlequins set a course for Knossos.


	15. Unforseen Discoveries I

][

Far above the maze of hangars, berthing chambers, workshops and cargo holds, the nerve center of the Imperial war effort toiled endlessly on the upper decks of the _Justicar_. Even on such a well-staffed and freshly commissioned vessel, this lofty domain was a world apart from the rest of the city-ship that it controlled. Even the lowliest mechanics and navy ratings that worked on the upper decks were seen as first class citizens, in the eyes of the rabble that inhabited the rest the ship. Entire societies formed on these behemoth vessels as they prowled the dark places of the galaxy, often segregated by nothing more than several feet of deck and duct work.

The pinnacle of the upper decks was a colossal structure. It was built at the top of a central support vertex, sitting like a crown, ringed by the buttresses and crenellated battlements of the vessel's outer defenses. Known simply as the Rotunda, it was a granite floored chamber that rose hundreds of feet to a gilded ceiling, awash with frescoes of epic Imperial legend. Beneath its domed immensity, its extremities were supported by vast alabaster columns and hung with enormous tapestries and campaign banners. Between the columns themselves there were looping chains of prayer scrolls, some of which were wrapped around the bases of smoldering braziers.

On the granite floor below, already worn smooth by the passing of innumerable feet were sailors, priests, pilgrims and innumerable other servants of the Emperor. The tendrils of seething crowds pitched and writhed as they strode to and fro, executing their duties, holding holy processions and often simply gawking at the majesty of Imperial engineering. The largest of archways in the Rotunda lead to the bridge, its entrance guarded from above by rows of dark-armored sentry cannons and from the ground by towering Skitarii juggernauts. Another portal lead to the viewing galleries: arma-plas windows, several stories high and wreathed in void shields that overlooked the length of the mighty vessel.

Dozens of other, smaller passageways ringed the Rotunda_,_ but the most beautiful of them all was the entrance to the Navis Nobilite Annex, headquarters of the House Nostromo Navigators. Behind the intricately carved, gold-plated archway, under the drifting cherubim and past a legion of security forces that defended the Navigators' quarters, lay the Divination Cloister. While the ancient Navigators led the mighty fleets of the Imperial Navy through the warp, it fell to the Nobilite Augurs to keep a watchful eye on the currents of the warp once they arrived at their final destination. Few secrets were kept from the prying eyes of the psykers in their employ, and even in a turbulent environment, nothing was beyond their watchful gaze.

While war ravaged the surface of the planet below, prophecies and portents unknown were plucked from the Immaterium on a daily basis. But one such discovery easily trumped them all. The lavishly appointed rotunda and its tributaries were not the place for it to come to light, however. The most unspeakable of evils had a habit of rising from places mundane and forgotten.

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++10.15 hrs. {Sys. Local – Knossos}

Tempestus Seg. #1669/H

[[Justicar. Navis Nobilite Annex, Divination Cloister – Augury Wing. Office 6G]]

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With a stomach-turning pop of releasing pressure, the world began to tumble into focus. First to return was the knowledge of oneself: Jillian LaRoux, sanctioned psyker and warp augur in the employ of the Navis Nobilite, arched her back as she stretched, her wiry limbs tingling from disuse. Tactile and olfactory sensations followed: the tang of incense, the feeling of soft carpeting beneath booted heels, and the polished, glossy nalwood desktop all came in a jumble. Then came sounds, distant, but growing closer with every passing moment. The ever-present rumble of starship engines and climate control systems created a comforting backdrop to her office, as did the incense sticks she had brought from her homeworld. Sight was always slow to return; the office glow strips were off, and everything was still fuzzy as she attempted to blink the world into focus.

Jillian's office was located below the antechamber of the Augury Wing. It was part of a hive of offices and librarium complexes, just another subdivision of the Divination Cloister. A department within a department within a department. As the newest analyst under the charge of Chief Augur Malfus, she had been pushed to the lower reaches of the Cloister. At least she had gotten her own office, instead of being crammed in with six other augurs, in a space already packed to the ceiling with parchment stacks and dusty cogigators.

As Jillian's mind returned to the material, she shuddered as her 'third eye' fluttered open – a sort of harmless spiritual tic that was common after long hours of peering into the immaterial. For the briefest moment, she was able to sense the life forces of the two armsmen posted outside her office, and took comfort in both their presence, and their marked disinterest in what went on behind their posting.

While running her fingers through her messy head of crimson hair, Jillian glanced about her office, austere as it was. Looking at the ornate chronometer on the far wall, she was happy to see that nearly four hours had elapsed. She was completing the bi-weekly audit of local warp currents, which was a thankless and time-consuming task. She had killed four, glorious working hours listening for echoes of the past, future and everything in-between, riding the currents of the warp with her mind's eye in search of anything of interest. In truth, she was supposed to be up in the Divination Halls with the rest of her shift, enduring the daily grind.

She wondered vaguely what she had done, whose delicate sensibilities she had offended this time, to be saddled with such busywork. Surely someone with her experience could be put to better use, she mused.

This assignment had turned out to be a far cry from the sensible and pragmatic Nobilite enclaves at Carillon Spire, on her home world of Castri Locus. At least they had appreciated the more innovative, free-form disciplines within divination. Malfus insisted that, despite glowing recommendations from the Carillon enclave, she would "return to basics" as he put it. The old sod wanted first-hand assurance that her basic grasp of divination was sound, much to Jillian's frustration. He was not trustworthy of those so many years his junior.

"No reason for haste, Ensign LaRoux. Restraint will be your salvation." He had a habit of repeating that mantra.

It was typical of the Tempestus Navigators, really. In this corner of the galaxy, the Eye of Terror was so distant that it had attained an almost mythical status. What few warp storms existed here were so well managed and patrolled by the Blackships and navy patrols that the possibility of a daemonic incursion was remote. This was, of course, an overwhelmingly good thing, as any reasonable person would agree. But Jillian had been trained in the perpetually volatile Segmentum Obscurus, however, where violent warp currents could spell doom for travelling vessels or spawn any other variety of horrors. Her transfer to Battlegroup Lambda left her in a bizarre and frustrating state of safety-induced boredom.

These navigators and other analysts of the warp were living in a false state of security, and regarded innovative techniques – techniques that hadn't made their way out of her home segmentum just yet – with suspicion and outright hostility, in some cases. She decided that, after the dressing-down she had gotten from the Navigator council upon check-in for outspoken behavior, that she would be an emissary of change in Battlegroup Lambda. She would show _them_ how it was done.

Presently, a tickling sensation irritated Jillian's upper lip and derailed her inner rant. She rubbed at it casually, and her fingers came away streaked with blood. _Another nosebleed_, she rolled her eyes. She produced a well-spotted handkerchief from her pocket that she kept handy for occasions like this. She murmured to herself as she turned her attention to her desk, dabbing at her nose:

"_Right, let's see what we can see,_"

Scattered across the expensive surface was a heap of parchments, positively covered in arcane script and swirling symbols. The pages began crinkle and curl at the corners, from such a large volume of ink being used. Her spattered inkwell and quill sat opposite the lumo-globe wired to her desk, beside a set of Imperial Tarot cards that were dusty from disuse. They were another tenet of divination that the philistines of Battlegroup Lambda clung to with more devotion than she felt was necessary. Jillian however, was not in the habit of wasting time wrestling with nebulous translations. She found Free-Inking, a self-scribed form of divination discovered on her home world, to be much more revealing, and better for creating bodies of evidence when stationed in a single star system.

Not that her superiors cared. She was forced to sit in those vast divination halls, sweltering under the haze of over-bright glow globes with hundreds of other augurs – it was torture. She couldn't imagine how anyone could stand to hunch over decks of Tarot cards, droning away into an auto-scriber and contributing to the rolling buzz of hundreds of voices. Not to mention the smell of all those warm bodies in one confined space.

The armsmen pacing between the desks didn't help either. They would find the most entranced augurs to toy with, poke and prod them as a joke, and make crass remarks of the females. But, when opening the mind to the warp, possession was always a possibility, and the protection they provided was important. Anyone unfortunate enough to fall victim to such a horror- as well as everyone in their immediate vicinity - was destined to be torn apart by massed volleys of shot cannon fire.

When Chief Augur Malfus heard that Jillian was slipping away from the divination halls and retreating to her office to Free Ink, he was furious. She imagined he would have liked to send a full detail of armsmen to shoot her dead, if he had that authority. _'Sacrilege!'_ he had fumed, as he had her brought before the Augur Council to explain her radical and heretical practice. Even the other stuffy robes that comprised the Council had vetoed his demands that she be ritually flayed for her heresy, thank the Emperor. A permanent notation on her service record and more rigorous purity testing until the day she died – those were her punishments.

Free Inking was still an expanding field, and had not existed long enough for anyone to know its every nuance. Down here, in the safety of her office, she thought of her covert Free Ink sessions as simply more research into a developing field, nothing more. A grave offense, deserving of public lashings and a slow, gruesome death? She thought not.

Jillian forced her mind back to the matter at hand. As she reviewed her scribbling, she curled her lip unconsciously. No matter how many times she Free-Inked, the results never stopped being downright unsettling. Exciting, but unsettling all the same. She had always attributed the mental relaxation rituals to an alcoholic blackout. After reciting the proper litanies and relaxing the mind, a heavy veil dropped over the senses, a suspicious euphoria took hold and then – there she was, still sitting at her desk. Only now she had a heap of writing in front of her, several hours had passed and she had absolutely no recollection of these events at all. More disturbing still was that the spidery symbols and often unknowable languages were always in someone, perhaps _something_ else's handwriting.

Her natural-born skill and, most of all her confidence in her own ability, overrode any fear of a mishap. Jillian was able to decode cryptic messages from the background noise of gibberish with relative ease. She spotted a stack of stilted hieroglyphs that generally appeared when viewing areas of the galaxy touched by war and genocide. Whatever it was that compelled her to write these symbols, it did so in a brutal fashion. Occasional rips in the parchment came from violent swipes of her quill; as she lifted another sheet, she became aware of a dull throbbing in her dominant wrist. Jillian cursed under her breath as she ran her hand across a patchwork of shallow gouges in her desk.

Framed by a swarm of scrolling hieroglyphs was a very clear likeness of the Aquila, clutching a perfect triangle. A Delta emblem. Inside were what looked like two letters, but they were illegible. Jillian took a moment to consider the drawing – it was unusual for such clearly human constructions to make their way into a Free Ink audit. She made a mental note to examine it at greater length later.

Moving along, she frequently came across a shape she felt as though she should recognize, always buried in walls of total gibberish. It made a mocking mixture of both masculine and feminine symbols and sprouted wicked looking aerials, the number six never far removed. Her head began to throb, and a sensation like warm honey began to pool in the pit of her stomach if she stared too long at these bizarre little shapes. Her heart began to race, her breath quickened and she found herself grasping idly at the fabric of her trousers and biting her lip.

With a powerful shudder, she shook her head clear, wiping beads of sweat from her brow. She took a moment to clear her mind, clouded as it had suddenly become with lustful thoughts and perverse desires. Perhaps there was something to the old Ecclesiarchy maxim "Idle minds do the Enemy's work." Taking a break from Free-Inking might not be such a horrible idea after all. Her theory was only strengthened when, on top of several stacks of neat, flowing symbols, she saw a series of loose sketches of Imperial Tarot cards. Jillian looked up at her own tarot deck, and took a moment to laugh aloud at the irony. Depicted was The Eye, The Sword, and The Despoiler, Inverted.

"Is that so?" She raised an eyebrow at the arrangement.

All of these cards pointed to the involvement of the Great Enemy. Chaos. Admittedly, this was a subject she had little experience with; such matters were quickly muscled into by the Inquisition or passed up her chain of command. In recent days, word had spread that the Field Intelligence division uncovered evidence of Eldar pirate activity on Knossos. They were the instigators of this rebellion – something that her current enclave had apparently foreseen for some time. Or so they claimed. None of these symbols could possibly be relevant to the liberation of Knossos. True, the Eldar were notorious for meddling in Imperial conflicts with the servants of Chaos, often holding information vital to banishing the foe.

But these xenos were different. Benevolence, as back-handed as it was with their more noble kin, was certainly not a quality they possessed. Archenemy be damned, they cared for nothing but themselves. She had to focus – while she dawdled in her office, brave men and women were dying in droves on the planet below. These Dark Eldar had murdered, raped and burned their way across Knossos without a care, and for that they needed to be destroyed.

Jillian stopped her analysis. One of her parchments in her hand had a blank corner, a swathe of beige parchment left entirely untouched by her audit. Glancing across the pile, she found another that had a diagonal bar of scribbling spanning the page. She began snatching up every page she was able to find with exposed paper remaining. Another surfaced, with a vast orb of writing in the center. She ripped through the parchments, aligning them into a jagged mosaic, heart hammering with renewed purpose. How she came to the conclusion of aligning these oddities, she would never be able to say for sure.

But she would never forget what she found.

The partly filled pages came together to form a full picture of the mood-twisting shapes she had previously discovered. One of the dread symbols of the Ruinous Powers sat before her, rooting her to the spot. Jillian stared boldly at the symbol, the edges of which she could swear were shuddering of their own accord. All it could do to her was _look_ scary – it was just an image, after all. She hoped. If anything, Jillian was more scared of the inevitable purity tests and rounds of questioning that would result from sketching such an evil emblem.

Then, quite suddenly, as if some dark force sensed her defiance, a voice whispered in her ear, hot and breathy.

It spoke a single word. Out came two awful, slithering syllables that invoked a being utterly beyond her fragile mind's ability to comprehend. It felt as though a hundred voices, both male and female, were speaking from a single mouth. The lumo-globe on her desk burst in an expanding sphere of shattered glass, peppering the surface with jagged shards. The psycho-reactive crystal wafers of the Tarot cards buckled and fused together, such was the surge of energy in the room.

Jillian erupted from her chair with a shriek of stark, raving terror. In a moment of remarkable foresight, she scraped the parchments together in a single sweep of her hand, clutched them to her narrow chest, and bolted for the door, leaving her jacket behind. She smashed her hip painfully against the corner of the desk in her haste. She stumbled across the carpet, leaning her shoulder in as she collided with the hatch to her office and throwing it wide open. The toe of her boot caught the threshold and she was catapulted into the darkened causeway in an explosion of rustling parchments. After a moment of flight, she landed in a graceless face-plant.

The two armsmen outside dropped into a combat stance immediately. They lowered the barrels of their shot cannons in unison, when they saw that the disturbance was just the eccentric analyst, and not an actual threat. Exchanging worried glances with one another, they asked together:

"Ma'am?"

Jillian was already up on one knee, scraping the parchments together with a frantic, harried kind of speed.

"_Help me!_" she screeched at them, sparing only a moment to make eye contact. They were taken aback at the fear in her eyes. Without a word, they slung their weapons and stooped down to help. Jillian snatched their papers away after she had cleared her section of the floor. She surged to her feet and took off down the causeway, as though all the daemons of the warp were on her heels.

"The _frak_ was all that about?" One armsman said to the other, who simply shrugged.

"What, LaRoux? She does that." He spared a glance down the causeway as her footsteps disappeared up a nearby ladder well.

"Should we report this?" He asked. The inquisitive armsman had just been transferred up from the lower decks after helping bust an obscura ring that had formed in the engineering sector – he had hoped the step up in posting would make for a less bizarre experience. Today, he had found out he was quite wrong.

"Nah," The older armsman replied. After a moment's silence, the new armsman spoke again.

"You reckon she's, ah, seen something?" He asked.

"Maybe. Maybe life as a psyker finally drove her mad. Maybe she just had to piss." He said, chuckling softly to himself. After a moment, the new blood joined him. Their laughter filled the now empty causeway as they reveled in their ignorance.

][

Perched atop the Divination Cloister was the central Augury Annex, far above the analysts' offices and librariums. It was here, in a hexagonal arrangement of grand, baroque chambers that surrounded the central chamber that each council member toiled day and night. From emergency reports to the Admiralty board, to the placement of cocksure analysts, at some point or another Malfus or one of his associates would hear of it. What Malfus hadn't anticipated however, was a most unpleasant visitor that now stood before him, interrupting his work.

The newcomer had scattered his servants with a confident wave of his hand, shooing them away like children and demanding to see "The Man Himself," as he had said. He strode right up to Malfus's open-aired arrangement of bookshelves, desks and sculpture collection and hijacked to Chief Augur's attention. He was the kind of man quite used to having his every curiosity satisfied at a whim, and he was the kind of man that Malfus had no interest in entertaining this morning. He took a deep breath, laced his fingers together, and said:

"As I have said, my Lord, at the faintest sign, you will be the first-" Chief Augur Malfus began in a placating tone, addressing this man before him. But for the eleventh time that morning (he was keeping a running tally) he was cut off:

"The first to know, yes, you've mentioned that. I just hope you're not holding out on me. I have no reason not to believe you. Yet." He said. His voice was like a sheet of velvet: heavy, dark and suffocating. Like most of his kind he was tall, aesthetically gifted and sharply attired; he stood proudly before Malfus, twirling a gilded quill between his fingers. Malfus's quill, no less. He had snatched it from his desk upon strolling, unannounced, into his office.

"Matters of the warp have played a negligible role in the conflict thus far, and there is no reason to suspect otherwise." Malfus said, his diplomatic expression turning to thinly veiled disgust. He watched as his visitor strode over to one of the gargoyle sculptures perched on either side of its desk, tickled its chin as though it were a stony pet, then gave it an affectionate pat on its peaked brow.

"All the same, I still would like to have words with some of your staff – at their earliest convenience, of course." He said, narrow dark eyes twinkling in the light. On the surface, it was a friendly and amiable request – Malfus knew better. There was simply no denying him, once he wanted something. Malfus went to speak, and continue this battle of words long enough for him to perhaps get bored and wander off. It was not to be.

The wood-panelled doors to the Malfus's chamber burst open with a terrible _boom_. The staggered silhouette of a young woman stood outlined by harsh glow globes in the causeway behind her, chest heaving from exertion. Clutched to her chest was a stack of parchment, scarcely held together by a single, shaking hand. Scattered servants looked up from their scrolls, servo skulls darted down from the vaulted ceiling to inspect the disturbance, and even Malfus's nemesis whirled about at the intrusion. Malfus flew to his feet:

"_What_ is the meaning of this?" He cried, slamming his bony hands against his desk. The cherubim swirling overhead were now hovering in place, pudgy hands placed on their hips and eyeing the newcomer with marked disapproval.

"My Lords! I have something you _must _see, it cannot wait," Jillian began, striding into the darkened chamber, projecting a confidence she didn't feel. Malfus waved his robed hands in denial, instantly refusing to hear the troublemaker. The tall man noticed the flash of irritated recognition, crossed his arms expectantly and leaned against the gargoyle, his interest piqued.

"Ensign LaRoux, if you do not _get thee hence, _right this very moment, I shall have you lobotomized for insubordination," Malfus fumed, his face turning a frightful shade of crimson. The man held up a hand, gilded quill still threaded between his fingers.

"Oh I don't know Nikolo, I rather like surprises. And she's one of your augurs as well – how fortuitous!" he said, referring to the Chief Augur by his first name. He placed a hand on his narrow hip, fingers resting on an ornate plasma pistol that thrummed happily in its holster. Malfus looked about to protest, but wisely held his tongue. With his quill-hand, the man gestured toward Jillian with a flourish.

"You there, LaRoux is it? Yes, I for one would _adore_ the chance to hear the reason for your intrusion," He said playfully.

"My Lord – " Malfus began, only to be shushed again by a quill-laden gesture.

"Ah-ah, 'Nikki. Please, Miss LaRoux – continue." He gave a whimsical bow to the now confused augur. She swatted away a grasping cherub that was reaching for her parchments, and cleared her throat.

"I've uncovered evidence of the Archenemy's presence in this star system – and ah, possibly on the current world of interest." She began. At the very mention of the agents of Chaos, the lesser servants in the chamber visibly retracted from her, muttering to one another as though the words themselves were painful to hear. Even Malfus himself seemed to bristle at the statement. The man's amiable tone bled away in an instant.

"That's quite a claim." He said flatly.

"Well, it's a legitimate one," Jillian shot back. The ebbing terror was lending her an exhilarating kind of strength.

"And _that_ is your evidence, I presume?" He pointed to her parchments. She nodded.

"Bring them here. Now."

"Of course." Jillian said, but stopped as Malfus shouted again:

"This is absolutely rid-" He started.

"Pardon me, Chief Augur Malfus, but if I didn't know better, I would think you were about to question my judgment. But I'm certain that's not the case, is it? Why don't you have a seat?" The man rounded on Malfus, who took a frightened step back. Jillian was shocked: she had never seen him so much as bat an eye at anyone short of a House Nostromo envoy – this morning started off insane, and was only escalating from there.

"Now then, let's see about those papers." The man waved Jillian forward. She straightened her back, regaining some of her composure before making her way across the granite-floored annex. If she kept her bearing, she'd be just fine, she assured herself.

"I've been tasked with auditing the local warp currents, and during a Free-Ink session, I was able to pull these results over the past four hours alone. I only reached back within the past two weeks, to avoid any duplication of efforts." She began spreading out the parchments on Malfus's desk. Tense moments crept by as she began to assemble them into the horrific image she had created. Malfus sat back in his chair, opting to remain silent this time. He scratched thoughtfully at his chin, itching at the frosty stubble that had grown in recent days.

"Forgive my ignorance, dear – what exactly am I looking at? Free Ink, you said?" The man asked, leaning beside Jillian.

"Correct. By entering a psychic trance with simple triggering implements like a quill and parchment, a psyker can keep a kind of logbook for their auditing sessions." She explained, still scrambling through parchment. The man reached past her and plucked one away from the pile to examine it.

"Fascinating." He turned the page over and angled it about, staring at the arcane text.

"It was a technique we used at Carillon Spire, actually. We found it better for record-keeping than just an auto-scribed narration of a Tarot reading. Also, I need that sheet in your hand." Jillian said politely. He passed off the parchment without a word. He threaded his thumbs underneath his pistol belt, drumming softly on the heavy buckle. He had a habit of just scooping up whatever sparked his interest, without devoting much thought to the action. With this girl claiming to have evidence of the Ruinous Powers in her grasp, the urge to snatch the paperwork away was almost too much to bear.

It was well within his right to do so, he had no problem admitting. His infinitely playful spirit however, convinced him to maintain this little charade. Ruffling Malfus's feathers was much too easy sometimes – best to see this 'evidence' from the girl's perspective, before using the power of his office so bluntly. As the augur hastily assembled her proof, he decided to focus on Malfus a bit more.

"You're getting quite innovative in your old age, 'Nikki. Incorporating Obscurus techniques into your lower echelons – I feel like the Heirs Apparent were misinformed about you." The man rocked forward on his tiptoes and nodded at the pile of parchments, positively twitching with cloaked anticipation.

"Actually, _Inquisitor Watz_, it was not my idea at all." He said, adjusting his intricate headdress. He finally addressed the young man by his proper title, while eyeing Jillian reproachfully.

"I can't, in good conscience, allow such liberal use of an untested augury method. Ensign LaRoux _insists_ upon shirking her appointed duties, opening her mind to the warp and doing so with flagrant disregard for the dangers involved. She does this after being counseled repeatedly on discontinuing this activity. It's simply too –" He explained, wanting no credit for what he thought was heresy.

"Enough." Inquisitor Watz held up a hand. Malfus grumbled to himself. His indignation was growing with each interruption. He also noticed that his favorite quill had disappeared from his hand – probably secreted away in one of his vest pockets, the little thief. He watched as the Inquisitor nudged his way to the center of the desk, pushing Jillian aside and sweeping Malfus's personal affects out of the way to make more room for her parchments. He leant forward to catch a tumbling bust of the previos Chief Augur before it crashed to the carpet surrounding his desk.

"Our augur is standing before us, unharmed – shaken, but unharmed. I believe you should let me worry about matters concerning purity." Inquisitor Watz said, half to Malfus, half to himself. He did not take his eyes from the parchments as he spoke. His brow knitted with concern as Jillian's mosaic began to take shape. He reached across her, picking up another sheet.

"I believe I see where this is headed. May I?" He asked. Jillian looked up. She had been frozen in place, hands clamped to the edge of the desk. She could scarcely believe she had been casually chatting with an Inquisitor as though he were some curious deck officer. If past experience with Tempestus superstitions had taught her anything, then she couldn't have picked a worse individual to run into with a stack full of Free Ink writings.

"Of course, my Lor-" he shushed her with a swipe of his hand.

"Marius is fine, formalities can wait. And you are?" He said, sparing a glance at her, friendly but absolutely engrossed in her writing.

"Er, Jillian." She said, while he placed the final parchment. He stood back, his look of satisfaction turning to grave concern. The emblem of Slaanesh, Prince of Pleasure and a myriad of other titles, sat before them, emanating a tangible feeling of dread. Malfus shifted in his seat, avoiding eye contact with the sinister symbol. A haze of fear, and heaviness in the air began to seep through the annex.

"Is your confidence in this 'Free-Inking' still so unshakable, my lord?" He sneered. A nearby cherub swirled past, squealed in fright, and propelled itself away after glancing at the documents.

"I have nothing to fear from a picture," Marius said dryly. Jillian felt relieved after hearing that.

"What I _do _find strange, is that your writing has woven Eldar script in with the smaller symbols. Here, for instance," He pointed to a random corner of her writings. The edge in his voice could not disguise the academic curiosity that seemed to permeate his whole being.

"I've seen this script before. It's not a craftworld style, but from another faction altogether. I haven't heard from their lot in a _very_ long time. Not sure how it fits into this context…" He glanced at Jillian, whose face betrayed a total lack of comprehension. He stared at her, then the writing, then back to her.

"Can you not read this?" He asked. Jillian shook her head.

"So none of this writing is deliberately created?" He stood up, suspicion clearly visible on his face. It had to be Jillian's imagination, but she could swear he had grown taller in the span of several seconds, so sudden and powerful was his shift into, cold demanding professionalism. She swallowed hard, before explaining herself.

"Sometimes the subconscious can exert influence, but rarely. The text is created by mild warp exposure to our psychic essence. The knowledge is transferred to a physical medium, regardless of our ability to comprehend it. Analysis falls on another department, or um, _your_ organization." She explained as best she could. She was treading a thin line – to omit any details was to invite more suspicion, and she had no desire to be bound, gagged and carted off to the Black Ships, never to return. Then again, Marius seemed the very antithesis what she expected of an Inquisitor.

"We frequently usurp your proceedings for good reason, I assure you. Though I suppose it makes sense that you lot call it '_Free_ Ink, now that you explain it like that," He nodded, satisfied that she understood the gravity of the situation. "And the Tarot you sketched here?" He pointed to the three cards.

"Old habits die hard, I suppose." She said. Marius nodded, tapping each sketch once. His suspicions seemed to have vanished, and his lust for knowledge had regained control.

"This is just more prediction of the Great Enemy, I can see. The Eye, the Sword, and the Despoiler, Inverted. Their attention is fixed on the world below us, passive but still present. Things will be coming to a head soon, we can't avoid that. But it would appear their schemes aren't likely to succeed. At least not how they've planned. Fascinating." He had read the Tarot effortlessly. He pored over the documents, his conversation with Malfus all but forgotten.

This was his new lead, his purpose for trawling the open expanses of Tempestus space. He had taken an oath to defend the Imperium from Xenos far and wide – but the introduction of the servants of Chaos was a startling development that had to be dealt with as soon as possible. The lurking Eldar symbols had captured his curiosity, and he was dying to analyze them further. After several minutes of scanning Jillian's work, he stood up, creating a staccato of cracking sounds as his back popped.

"Are there others that practice Free Inking on this ship?" He asked, turning to Jillian.

"Not that I know of, no." She answered honestly. Marius took a moment to look her over, as though probing for any hint of a lie. He appeared satisfied – very few had the audacity to lie so boldly to an Inquisitor, after all.

"Right then, we leave at once. Malfus, I'm borrowing your augur for now. I'll return her – well, I can just return her whenever I decide, can't I?" He said, as though still enamored with his ability to do, quite literally, whatever he liked. He led Jillian back across the granite-floored opulence of the Augury Annex, toward the main doors, leaving the spluttering Malfus behind his desk. As the double doors swung shut behind them, and the buzz of activity in the passageway filled in around them, Marius smiled to himself.

"Giving that old codger even more gray hairs is something of a hobby of mine." He said to no one in particular, watching a procession of Ministorum priests come 'round the bend. He then looked to Jillian, who remained silent, parchments hastily scraped together in her hands.

"Now then, let's make sure your little discovery hasn't damaged you irreparably." He said as he led her down the vaulted passageway, dodging servitors and passing armsmen.

"I'd hate to have to decipher that mess all by myself." He said, pointing to her parchments.


	16. Unforseen Discoveries II

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++06.13 hrs. {Sys. Local – Knossos}

Tempestus Seg. #1669/H

[[Justicar. Navis Nobilite Billeting,Upper Decks. Cabin 079.]]

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Jillian awoke in her bunk, face down and stripped to her undershirt and trousers. She peeled her face up from the sweat-moistened sheet, leaving deep blanket creases on her cheek. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her forearms stinging from what felt like a host needle pricks. Needle pricks?

The memories emerged unbidden. For an unknowable amount of time, Marius had her detained. She had been stolen away into an unmarked Medicae post below the upper decks, one that the Inquisition used as a clever front. Inside, she had been subject to rounds of grueling questioning about all manner of seemingly disassociated topics. All the while, she had been strapped to an operating slab and repeatedly injected with Emperor-alone-knows what chemicals to make her mind more pliable. The earliest bits were all she could clearly recall; she rolled over, planting her bare feet on the floor and wondering if she even wanted to remember the rest.

Jillian went to scratch her backside, and felt a folded envelope in her rear pocket. She held it up to the dim light in her cabin, eyeing an Inquisitorial emblem stamped in the wax seal. Before she could focus on the letter itself, however, she spied a strange mark on her forearm. It was a purity tattoo.

A rush of relief and satisfaction overcame Jillian, and an ear-to-ear grin split her features. The narrow band of holy scripture, penned in a neat and clipped hand, ran the circumference of her forearm, inches below her elbow. The scripture extolled the virtuous and steadfast nature of the bearer, declaring her free of guilt and beyond reproach, after staring into the face of evil and returning unharmed. At the top center, on the underside of her forearm was a small -][- engraved above the ornate bordering. Jillian let her arm drop into her lap, threw hear head back and laughed aloud in the confines of her cabin.

"Oh Malfus you old salt, what would you have to say about _this_? Not a damned thing, that's what," She said to no one in particular, turning her arm over to look at the rest of the scripture. After months of threats, abuse and dismissal from her superiors, here was the most irrefutable proof of her innocence and credibility that she could wish for. For who had the courage, or the utter lack of sanity to question the word of His Holy Inquisition? After a few moments' admiration, Jillian returned her attention to the letter in her hand. She cautiously opened it, pulling out a crisp letter, written in the same handwriting as her purity tattoo.

_Jillian,_

_Terribly sorry about the rough handling – had to make sure you were 'safe,' as it were. What a resilient mind you have. Looks like a clean bill of health for you. The sedatives will be wearing off around 06.00, a full day after I pen this note (They're quite precise.) Please make yourself presentable and report to Concilium chamber D9F on Deck 6, by 07.45. There is much to discuss.  
-M._

Jillian stared at the letter for a long moment, temporarily paralyzed by the prospect of further proceedings. Glancing around the room, she saw a simple cloth bag at the foot of her bunk. She rose up, padded softly over to it, and opened it up to find her personal affects inside. She dug out her time piece; she saw that she still had plenty of time to prepare herself – physically and emotionally – for another meeting with Marius. Not even considering disobeying an Inquisitor, She set about gathering her service uniform for what she could only guess was a sort of impromptu counseling session.

After a speedy trip to the ablution block, Jillian dried herself off and began the tedious process of trussing herself up her blue Navy service coat and white trousers. Like any good sailor, she kept several sets pressed and ready to go at any moment in her wall locker – how the Imperial Navy _loved_ its uniforms. Though meeting with an Inquisitor certainly qualified as an appropriate time to look one's sharpest. She went through the motions with a curious sort of calm, and as she smoothed the pleats on her coat, standing at her hatch, she exhaled strongly and stepped outside.

][

The portion of the ship indicated in Marius's letter noticeably departed from the opulence of the rest of the Justicar. Jillian made her way up numerous ladder wells and across banner-strung catwalks overlooking the teeming crowds of the grand cathedrals and surveillance bunkers, climbing ever upward to her destination. She found herself less assaulted by standard Imperial finery she had grown so accustomed to seeing, the further she delved into unfamiliar territory. The processions and gaggles of pilgrims dwindled swiftly, the ever-present armsmen were replaced with Hellgun-toting Stormtroopers devoid of unit insignia, and the sheer volume of commemorative artwork quite nearly vanished, aside from the occasional soot-encrusted fresco. Dark-suited adepts and emotionless tech priests trickled by now and again, looking past and often _through_ her as they meandered through the gunmetal decks and low ceilinged passageways.

Jillian followed the alphabetical arrangement of compartment designators toward Concilium D9F, turning down a cable-striated passage, cast in an orange glowstrip light. A pair of towering, gene-bulked men in glossy power armor and enormous fur cloaks stood in one corner, conversing in hushed tones. They eyed her expectantly as she passed, augmetics clicking and whirring as though daring her to speak to them directly. She had no intention of such, and simply hurried past, feeling incredibly out of her depth in this hushed and conspiratorial environment. At long last, after enduring the eerie silence and unnerving stares from the inhabitants of this strange place, she found the Concilium block she was seeking.

At the end of the passageway was a simple, unadorned hatch, with a placard beside it reading D9F. On either side were two of the unmarked Stormtroopers, standing motionless at their post. She approached them, pulling her clearance medallion from a pocket of her service coat, assuming they were going to want proof she had a right to be here. No such thing happened. She stopped.

"I'm here to speak with Inquisitor Watz." She said as plainly as she could manage. One of the Stormtroopers turned to face her, no doubt judging her from behind that expressionless mask. He turned back to staring down the hall after a moment, not uttering a word.

"Right then, I guess I'll just knock," She said, confusion plain in her voice. She fought back a more sassy and dismissive remark, feeling that these men needed very little justification for blasting her apart with those hellguns. She rapped three times on the hatch, before lacing her fingers together behind her back. After a moment the hatch swung inward, revealing a cheerful Marius.

"Good, you found the place – right on time, too. Come in, come in," He said excitedly, apparently ready to discuss her findings at great length. Inside was a sparsely appointed concilium chamber, containing several cogigator screens and a large, gunmetal table – a common theme in this part of the ship. A series of cables ran from the wall to a pict- display module, on top of which sat Jillian's Free Ink parchments.

"Is there some sort of presentation going on?" She asked, stepping into the chamber with Marius close behind.

"An astute observation, _shipmate."_ he said.

"We are going to have a little sit-down and go over your scribblings with some colleagues of mine, and some other folk that need to know of your discovery – ready to play schola instructor?" He said with a charming smile. Jillian was most certainly _not_ ready to instruct Inquisitorial staff on the finer points of Free Inking, after having her very soul probed by not-so-gentle chiurgeons and Inquisition staff. She wasn't going to disappoint someone of his station, however.

"I suppose I could give a quick dissertation of what I know – I would have liked some warning, but I can make it work," She said, spooling up her professional demeanor.

"Oh I wouldn't worry much – I just want you to break down the basics of your methods for us, give some credibility to my plans, if you will. You're the subject matter expert, after all." He explained. Jillian could only guess at what he was scheming.

She hadn't long to wonder at his motives. The Concilium's hatch swung open and a small crowd of important officials began to file in. The first and most noticeable person to enter was a bearded man wearing the typical, gaudy attire of a Rogue Trader captain. On either side of him there were two advisors, scribbling notes on well-used dataslates as the trio found a seat at the long table. Next came a man and woman in identical, black service uniforms, their collar devices and buttons embossed with a silver -][- symbol of the Inquisition. Several officers of the Guard and a blue-jacketed executive officer of the Nobilite-funded Field Intelligence division entered and spread about the room. They chatted, joked, and sipped at mugs of recaf while they awaited the briefing.

A sudden pressure formed in the back of Jillian's mind as she sensed the frigid aura of a primaris psyker and the subtle rippling presense of other fellow augurs. Their little clutch filed in silently, and occupied the farthest spaces around the meeting table, a marked distance from the rest of the gathered representatives. A bald-headed man led his underlings, his heavy overcoat studded with arcane wards and purity seals.

"Ah, good morning, everyone – let's take our seats, shall we?" Marius announced as they entered. The chatter shut off in an instant, and everyone turned to face Jillian and the Inquisitor. The scattered officers obeyed, finding their spots around the table. Once everyone was seated, and attentive, Marius stepped up to the front of the room. Jillian found a seat across from the Rogue Trader captain.

"Now then, I am Inquisitor Marius Watz of the Ordo Xenos. I've called this meeting today to bring your attention to a… disturbing new development in the Knossos battle space. Our Nobilite augurs have detected the movements of the Archenemy in this star system." He said. A rush of chatter swept through the room, which Marius silenced quickly with a swift gesture.

"An alarming set of circumstances to be sure, with the Eldar pirates already present. Now, before I go any further, I'd like to give the floor to Ensign LaRoux, the analyst who actually made the discovery with an innovative technique known as Free-Inking." He gestured to Jillian, and the heads of every individual swiveled in her direction, appraising her silently. She nodded at them, drumming her fingers on the tabletop for lack of an appropriate response.

"It's a _fascinating_ discipline – I've spent days now studying her findings. It's important you understand the nature of her discovery for this briefing to have its intended effect. But I think I'll leave the specifics for the expert to explain – Ensign LaRoux, the floor is yours." Marius took a step to the side, indicating she come to the front. As she stood and made her way forward, trying to mask her nerves, Marius fished into his vest pocket.

"Ah! Before I forget," He produced a small device and aimed it at an indeterminate point above them. The cogigator screens winked on, displaying pict-captures of Jillian's writings in several configurations. The gathered officers shifted their gaze upwards. The Rogue Trader's advisors whispered in his ear, and the psykers exchanged odd looks with one another. Jillian laced her fingers behind her back, and cleared her throat.

She began her explanation by pointing to the pict-captures, highlighting the fact that the majority of analysts using this method, regardless of skill level or inherent psychic power, were only able to look roughly six Terran months into the past or future. For ominous portents like these to appear so vividly meant that the agents of Chaos were operating in the shadows as they spoke, moving toward their unknown objective. Further, deeper audits would be required to find more information, though at increasing risk to the analyst. More warp exposure to a psyker's mind was tempting fate. Thus, Free Inking was generally used for broad and long-term operations. It had been her records that gave compelling proof of Chaos influence, and it was proof that could not be refuted and debated like a Tarot reading.

Knowing that her mind had brushed with the Ruinous Powers was a deeply violating and horrifying prospect – despite apparently being cleared by the Inquisition itself. Speaking to a panel of higher ranking officers hardly qualified as stressful by comparison. She spent the next several minutes explaining the accuracy and usefulness of the Free Inking discipline for easy analysis. After she reached the limits of her knowledge, she turned to Marius.

"And that's all I have. Will there be anything else?" she asked. Marius shook his head, leaning back before propelling himself to his feet. He gave Jillian a friendly slap on the shoulder as he passed.

"No no, that was quite informative, thank you. Now then, ladies and gentlemen," Marius turned to address the others. Everyone's gaze returned to Marius. He cleared his throat and addressed them with a grave, professional tone. The amiable, scholarly demeanor was gone and in its place was that of a true Inquisitor.

"I had Ensign LaRoux present that information to you, so as to leave no doubt in your minds that what we now face is a very real threat. My associates had their suspicions about the nature of the rebellion below us, of course – but now we have proof from multiple sources. There's something far more sinister driving the Eldar cultists' actions, and I intend to find out what that is. Your chains of command have already been notified of this briefing, and will be expecting reports on what you have learned today. Appropriate action must be taken swiftly, ladies and gentlemen." He produced his gilded dataslate and tapped at its screen with his new, gilded digi-quill. The pockets of every assembled official began to beep, hum and chime as they withdrew their own dataslates. Heavily encrypted follow-up data would be sent to all their personal accounts.

"That concludes this briefing. I thank you all for your attention, and your dedication to duty, both to your fellow service members and to the remaining loyal citizens of Knossos. I pray this will all be over soon. The Emperor protects." Marius gave a sweeping bow as the various representatives of the Knossos Liberation rose from their seats, excited chatter resuming as they filed out of the concilium chamber. Several minutes passed as Marius held private conversations with the Field Intelligence representative, and the Rogue Trader captain; Jillian waited patiently for them to finish. As Marius and the captain shook hands and parted, he turned to her, his jovial side returning:

"Good show! The disposition analysis in your personnel file said you were an outspoken sort – looks like it got you a gift for public speaking, as well. I do love having my hunches proven right." he gave a short round of applause.

"Well thank you, I think." She replied.

"I should tell you, last night I submitted your reassignment papers to the Heirs Apparent of House Nostromo. They don't really have a choice of course, but I like to be professional about it." He said with a smile, quite pleased with himself.

"I'm going to be keeping you for a time, at least until this mess is sorted out on Knossos." He said, smoothing out his vest. Jillian's heart skipped a beat.

"I'm being attached to a Retinue?" she gasped. In her field of expertise, interfacing with the Inquisition wasn't unheard of, but it was still considered a great honor and privilege.

"Your file _did _also peg you as ambitious. Interesting. That remains to be seen, but I have a feeling you'll do just fine in a direct support kind of role, yes. Ability like yours is notable, but with no augmetic enhancement? You're a curious sort. Us purists have to stick together, wouldn't you agree?" He said. The Inquisition wasn't in the habit of selecting anyone but the most competent individuals in any capacity, and Jillian's thoughts were a cocktail of equal parts pride, fear and excitement at what was to come. This was also the first time she had taken note of his utter lack of augmetics. His limbs were all his own, and he had nothing resembling synth-muscle or even ocular enhancers – there wasn't a single interfacing stud or copper wire to be seen.

"I do have one question, though." She said, sparing a glance at the cogigator monitors, still displaying her writings.

"Ask away – I'm an open book. Relatively speaking."

"You didn't mention the other Eldar faction – not important?" She asked.

"I didn't mention the Aquila and the Delta symbol, either," He said with a mischievous look, clearly tickled to have kept choice bits of information to himself. Marius gave her a knowing glance, put his hand on her shoulder and lead her to the door.

"Are they irrelavent, you ask? Quite the contrary, actually." He said, pulling the hatch shut behind them.

"So, why the omission?" Her brow furrowed. The realm of Imperial intelligence was a strange place, indeed.

"That's for us to know, and with any luck, for no one else to find out."

][


	17. Rolling Thunder

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++02.00 hrs.

Gantos. 2nd Tier. Public office block 3B. Vidal. 53.2x67.86.

Administratum Annex.

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"I don't like this," Girard said aloud, though he kept the vox channel closed. Veidt nodded in agreement; things were looking to escalate to a level that they may not be able to handle. They had a well-placed ambush spot for any infantry formation that wandered through the streets below. Unfortunately, there was far more than just infantry inbound.  
Their continued survival demanded a change of pace.

"Sergeant, meet us at the ground floor of the row house. We're moving on." Girard voxed.

"We'll be there shortly." Stern replied. Girard turned to Veidt, then back toward the stairwell.

"We're not waiting on Verdant Prince?" He asked.

"No, we're not. I say let _them_ deal with the tanks – we have better things to do." Girard said with a dismissive air as they rejoined with his squad. Tank hunting in a Storm Trooper squad was best accomplished with stealth and guile, not by facing superior firepower head-on.

"Good call, sir." Veidt said. His men clustered around the entrance of their building as he did a quick mental head count. Everyone was there; he spied the Naval Intelligence unit patch on Mack's sleeve and on those of the armsmen as well. They quickly finished redistributing the looted boltgun rounds from the gun emplacements, and stashed the ammo in their magazine pouches.

"The gate is open, and Verdant Prince is on the way. As for us, we're pressing on into the tier –let's move," He swept past his men, who followed suit with nods of affirmation.

"No glorious stand against the enemy armor, sir?" Heisig smiled, his words thick with his Elysian colonist accent. He tapped a magazine against his helmet to seat the rounds, before stowing it away.

"I don't know about you, but I like my firefights quick and one-sided. I'm in no hurry to field test the Lancer rounds against frontal tank armor – are you?" Girard said, earning a few chuckles from the squad. Heisig relented.

"No, I guess I prefer a sure thing too, sir." he laughed, abandoning the fantasy. They reassembled in front of the row house, and set off to the southeast bend in the tier. After a short run, an intersection drew near, with brick hab blocks and public works facilities looming over them at every turn.

"Anywhere out of the path of an armored assault is fine by me, but where exactly _are_ we headed?" Stern asked as the squad bolted across the open street, going in pairs as he and Girard provided cover for their advance. Behind them, the report of tank cannons and heavy weapons fire bounced through the empty alleys. Verdant Prince had arrived safely, free from the attentions of the now-silent artillery battery.

"We're continuing toward the next tier. I was looking at that map while you opened the gate; the next one is south-east of our position. They're arranged in a counter-clockwise fashion as the city rises – If we can unlock the front doors to their house from the inside, it should speed things along for everyone else." Girard said, glancing across the far buildings as Veidt and Heisig bolted across the road, weapons aiming down either end. Stern nodded:

"A wise plan – I wasn't quite satisfied with the Commander's Intent, if I may be so bold," Stern said. Girard quickly agreed.

"Oh of course, I'm not opposed to wholesale violence, but it needs a purpose. We'll give Pierce the body count he wants while we have the darkness to our advantage, but I think it falls on us to channel that destruction," Girard explained his plans. He was taking to the newfound freedom of his office quite well – it was all so exhilarating to have not only this freedom but the responsibility of an officer as well. It was his turn to win some fame not only within his unit, but for the entire 33rd Storm Troopers as well.

Two shadowed forms materialized across the road where the rest of the squad was waiting. Their final approach was covered. Girard pushed himself up and into a fast run, with Stern following suit as they pelted across the danger zone. During a brief lull in the overhead artillery fire, their footsteps echoed eerily across the sides of the towering buildings. Delta Squad circled up once everyone was across, waiting for direction from Girard. Before he could speak, Gideon piped up from beside him:

"If I may offer an idea, sir?" He said. Girard nodded.

"Send it."

"Notice the buildings here closing in? It's been that way since we got up to this tier." He gestured around them, up towards the slivers of night sky, still filled with the ever-present flash of artillery and missile launches.

"What if we started moving by rooftop? The majority of our engagements have occurred at ground level – we could keep the element of surprise if we simply moved on a higher elevation, would we not?" He asked. Girard smiled – he always appreciated unconventional thinking. He nodded his agreement, and gestured to Stern:

"Outstanding idea. Stern? Get us to the roof." He gave a sweeping gesture to the nearest doorway in their alley. Morrow eased the door open and the squad filed in, fanning out through the ground floor in search of a staircase. Booted heels clunked across hardwood floorboards, footsteps softening for a moment as they passed over the worn, intricate carpets in this empty apartment lobby. Girard and his men noted the toppled furniture, scattered personal belongings and spent shell casings littering the floor here, telling the story of strife and rebellion that played out here as native Imperial forces were defeated, long before the liberation force arrived.

"Found the stairs, they're street-side." Streeter voxed. Girard and the rest of the squad zeroed in on Streeter's location. They formed into a column and began advancing up the creaky stairs, into the gloom. It was relatively quiet here, but with the Dark Eldar prowling the streets of Gantos, the silence was most deceptive – it wasn't just the Stormtroopers that owned the night, now. After the tense silence of the apartments, Delta Squad re-emerged through the rooftop access hatch, back into the strobe-lit insanity of the outside world.

Instantly, they formed a perimeter around the open rooftop, skidding to a stop around the parapet and covering their respective sectors of fire. Their eyes were perpetually scanning for danger, but with a new view of the mega-city, every man (and woman) was taken aback at the scale of the battle that raged around them. Sweeping, perforated lines of heavy-caliber cannon fire stitched to and fro across the front line of the battle, out on the plains. Explosions blossomed across the sides of craters caused by the orbital bombardment and the sound of aircraft engines in a steep dive filled the air with their awful shriek. The percussive blasts of bombs and artillery were so powerful that they buffeted Delta Squad repeatedly, ruffling loose gear and rattling the crumbling masonry on the rooftop. Death stalked the battlefield before them, and the price in lives was mounting with each blood-soaked moment.

"Emperor preserve us," Streeter whispered. He looked out across the killing fields far away on the edges of the city, at the scale of the carnage that was taking place. Veidt nodded softly.

"We've moved up from shivving pirates out in the colonies, that's for sure." He said. He would never consider telling Streeter, but this was his first deployment to a bona fide war zone, as well. He had seen combat aplenty and even taken part in brutal urban warfare, but this was a whole new experience.

"Over here! Look at this," Gideon was gesturing toward the adjoining rooftops. Girard and Stern spared a glance in his direction. Zigzagging across the serried roofs of the second tier was a network of walkways, constructed from planks, flak-board and I-beams lashed together in a sturdy fashion. More twisting, precarious paths faded into the distance, lost to perspective as the city rose ever upwards. Girard had a solid grasp on where they were now, and motioned to Stern to move the squad forward. They would cross the parapet and begin a southeasterly course toward the next gateway.

They moved together, Gideon in the lead as they ghosted across the empty rooftops. The man had a surprising grace about him, bounding to and fro as they hustled across a set of hab-blocks. Back in his days as a hive ganger, a man as strong and agile as he would have made an excellent courier. Scurrying through pipes, leaping fearlessly from spire to spire and everywhere in-between, Girard figured his newest corporal had had plenty of practice at this kind of thing. The rest of them kept pace, slinking across the cleverly placed bridges across the tops of Gantos's second tier. Long minutes passed in silence, the eyes of every man scanning the gloomy rooftops as they made their way along.

Flak-board paths led them through partially shelled hab-blocks and over gloomy alleys and back yards. All the while, they kept their weapons raised at windows and holes in the buildings around them, always expecting an ambush. While passing back over top of a flame-gutted structure, Alno spared a glance over the ledge. A sudden flash of motion and fluttering of wings shot past, and the armsman leapt back with a barely-restrained shout, weapon aimed to the sky. The squad slowed its pace at Alno's outburst.

"What's happening back there?" Girard voxed.

"I-I saw something go past – it had wings, and it was frakkin' huge," he hissed, still aiming upward as though expecting to see the mysterious presence reappear at any moment.

"I saw it too," Vald said, fighting to keep the frightened edge from his voice.

"Wings? We scared of the birds, now?" Veidt muttered. Stern, bringing up the rear, grabbed hold of Alno's sleeve and pulled him forward a step.

"Keep it together, shipmate," He grunted sarcastically, urging him forward.

"I'll keep it together even better without a _knife_ in my back," Alno retorted.

"Everyone, shut the frak up," Girard barked into the vox. The squad collectively bristled at the sudden chastisement. Alno shook his head, trying to focus – he had experienced ship-wide battles during boarding operations, and was used to frantic combat. But the sheer scale and relentlessness of the battle around him was wearing on both the armsmen; Alno for one was trying to keep his nerves from getting the better of him. The same could be said of Vald, though he was met with less success.

"Apologies sir, I-" Alno began, but was shushed again as the squad halted around another stairwell. Girard held up a hand:

"Not now, just be quiet, all of you." He gestured over the side of the building on which they now stood; the sound of rumbling engines and indistinct shouting could be heard down in the street. Delta Squad moved in a line, creeping around air vents and strewn equipment toward the far side of the building, slowing as they neared the edge.

"Well would you look at that?" Lindemann whispered, a grim smile forming inside his helmet.

Below them was a cobbled plaza, abuzz with activity and brightly lit by arrays of glow globes. Chugging generators powered the tall spotlights, under which teams of traitor guardsmen hustled back and forth under the whips and cruel laughter of Dark Eldar overseers. The whole arrangement surrounded a blasted monument at the center, its figurehead long since destroyed by the rebellion. Hoses snaked from rows of fuel bladders, connected to a squadron of blood-smeared tanks. In one corner, several traitors were beating and hacking one of their own men to pieces, tearing at the unfortunate's wounds and slathering their hands in his blood. After pulling the poor soul apart and his anguished shrieks trailed away, the culprits smeared his organs and vital fluids across the side of a nearby tank, creating sweeping wards and sigils on the dull metal. A small detail of armored xeno warriors stood guard around the place, watching similar scenes of brutality unfold along with a contingent of traitor gunmen.

"Disgusting," Gideon sneered, tightening his grip on his bolter. The others were exhibiting similar responses: there was disgust and hatred, but no pity was to be had. Girard pushed the hate away for now, instead filling his mind with the very surgical and impersonal methods required to kill these fiends.

Girard scanned the rooftops that surrounded the triangular plaza, with its twisting streets and dark alleyways acting as tributaries to the bright-lit center. Similar arrangements of walkways were visible during the flashes of cannon fire and explosions in the sky. Along the edges of the adjacent structures were small gaggles of armed traitors and assorted rabble, tiredly walking their posts.

"Invictus Actual, this is Invictus One. We have eyes on a refueling depot, in the southern quadrant of the second tier. Requesting permission to engage." Girard opened a vox channel to Colonel Pierce's command post. Another voice answered: no doubt a fire control officer or other Munitorum analyst.

"Invictus Actual attending. What is the estimated strength of resistance?" the voice asked. Girard glanced over the scene. He kept taking in detail as he continued to converse through the vox.

"Shooters on the surrounding buildings, a squad of xeno troops and two to three platoons of support personnel." He said.

"Affirmative, Invictus One, please stand by." the voice said.

Girard sighed, again surveying the scene before him. Unorganized gaggles of humans carted supplies to and fro, prepping ammunition for their tanks and maintaining the fuel hoses. Many of them shied away from the Dark Eldar, he noticed. Those that strayed too close were whipped in short order by a pair of gladiatorial wyches that prowled the courtyard. None dared retaliate against these femme fatales, for to do so was to die a slow and gruesome death. They appeared content to endure the vicious attentions of their masters, rather than salvage any shred of human dignity. As Delta Squad awaited permission to engage the forces below them, they began to notice – not without a healthy dose of revulsion – that many of the men who fell under their whips and flails seemed to rather enjoy the attention.

The thread-bare and beaten traitors were the product of the Dark Eldar's seduction. Ideas of true freedom, of pleasures and decadence unknown and of adventure unimagined: these were what the people of Knossos had been promised by their xeno overlords. Most of all, they were promised freedom from the oppressive regime of the Imperium – after all, what had they ever done for _them,_ all the way out in this lonely corner of the galaxy? What became of all their hard labor and shortened lifespans spent toiling away in vast manufactorums to create the armored killing machines of the Imperial Guard? There was a galaxy out there for the taking, beyond the narrow confines of Imperial law and morality.

The reality of their allegiance to the Dark Eldar was not quite what they had expected. Mind-addling drugs and debauched pleasure cults aside, the quality of life for the average citizens and turncoat soldiers had changed very little, in the end. There was still work to be done, patrols to be done and floors to be swept and scrubbed. The new management was simply more liberal in its issuance of beatings and had a habit of stealing troops away in their sleep, bound for haemonculus labs and torture chambers, never to return. These troops had volunteered to walk the streets of Gantos, rather than occupy the xeno-held citadel a moment longer. It was safer out there.

The Dark Eldar had a proclivity for sadism and wickedness that would make the most brutal and fanatical confessors grimace, and these statuesque female xenos lived up to that reputation. The two of them had split off throughout the courtyard, and had taken to lashing out at their slaves with savage glee. One bare-chested civilian drafted into the working party caught the attention of a wild-haired wych, who stalked forward and whipped her blade toward the sweat-slick unfortunate. Her sword came apart into a wicked, segmented whip, wrapping around one arm; with an astonishingly powerful wrenching motion she tore the limb free in a welter of blood.

The man howled in agony, collapsing to the cobblestones and clutching at the ragged stump. The spray of blood speckled her generously exposed portions of porcelain flesh, marring the sleek muscles and leather bindings. She planted a long, stiletto heel into his heaving chest, dark blood welling up out of the wound. With another windmill sweep of her arm, she hacked the man in two with the scything razor slivers, coating her boots with his blood and spreading a fine mist of crimson across her torso and chin. As the other humans scattered in fright, the wych holstered her weapon, running gloved hands up her exposed midriff. She ran her hands up through her mane of ebon hair, licking at her lips as she absorbed the suffering and agony in the air. A cruel, debauched chuckle bubbled out of her thin lips and she threw her head back, transforming them into chest-heaving howls of laughter and satisfaction.

"Oh, those little whores are going to die _screaming_ for their heathen gods," Gideon growled, teeth bared inside his helmet. Girard shook his head.

"I don't plan to give them the luxury of screaming – wait," He said, placing a hand to his vox bead. The vox pinged again. It was Pierce this time:

"Request granted. Slaughter them all, Invictus One." He said, before tossing the headset back at the operator and closing the channel. Girard smiled inwardly. No protocol was observed in giving the command – so much the better, he decided. He snapped his fingers, drawing his squad's gaze before pointing across the rooftops:

"There. You see that? We can stay up top and move around the plaza. We're going to split up, get rid of the overwatch quietly. Then we torch everything with the rest of our melta bombs, and kill what's left down below." He looked about, pointing to Stern and Gideon.

"Stern, pick some men to go with you, head left and get into position _there,_" Girard pointed to a building across the way, strung up with desiccated bodies and smeared with more of the bloody scrawls.

"Gideon, take Streeter and a group to the right, over to that little café across from Stern's position. Mack, her men, Wulfhausen and I will stay here and eliminate the xenos first. Toss the meltas and fire at will on my signal." He explained his plan quickly. The confusion of being hit on three sides at once would hopefully throw this fuel depot into disarray and deal a logistical blow to the enemy once it was destroyed. Stern and Gideon picked their groups and ghosted across the rooftops. The flimsy construction of their roof creaked and cheap masonry splintered as the men crossed its surface. While Girard waited for them to reach their objectives, he heard the faint rustling of wings behind him. He whipped around, ready to fire.

"What's wrong?" Mack whispered. She took a knee in front of the parapet, outside the enemy's field of view. Girard stared down the barrel of his plasma rifle for a moment. No targets to be seen.

"Nothing. Thought I heard something." He murmured. He spared a sidelong glance at Alno, who returned the look with an uneasy stare. Girard turned his attention back to the plaza. Another pair of tanks was returning through a side street, their hulls speckled with las-burns and smoking heavily from rocket strikes. Verdant Prince was pushing the armor back in their direction. Girard cursed under his breath.

A flash of movement across the plaza drew his attention. The pair of traitors atop the café was suddenly pulled out of sight, and after a moment Gideon's armored form rose in their place. He gave a thumbs-up as Stern's group emerged on the corpse-studded building, sheathing their knives and producing their melta bombs. Girard waited until both tanks had driven close enough to the fuel bladders before he made a chopping motion with his hand.

A flurry of dark specks leapt from the rooftops and into the bright-lit plaza. A chest-rattling blastshook the area as each melta bomb detonated in near-unison. Bodies were hurled through the air, arcing flame as they tumbled back to the ground. The pair of damaged tanks flew apart as a pair of melta bombs slammed into their vulnerable upper armor and the fuel bladders erupted in a blinding tower of flame. The other tanks detonated when the flames travelled up the fuel hoses and into their gas tanks. Screams of the dying filled the plaza and the milling slaves were thrown into a mass panic. The Dark Eldar whipped and struck their cattle in a vain attempt to maintain order, whirling about in confusion as they sought their attackers.

Girard had the gore-smeared wych in his sights already, and fired a single shot at its torso. The shot went low and sliced through her solar plexus, out through her tailbone. She shrieked in agony for the briefest moment before the superheated air blistered and seared her lungs. She dropped her wicked blade and her boiling flesh slid apart as she tumbled to the ground. Girard's lip curled as he thought:  
"Good."

Wulfhausen ripped open a warrior's side, and in its violent death throes it fired a burst of splinter fire into one of its compatriots. The others whipped around, leveling their rifles at Girard's position, but Mack, the armsmen and Wulfhausen beat them to it. Their weapons fired in unison: bolt rounds tore one warrior limb from limb as they exploded, peppering the ground with hunks of his armor. The exploding bolts tore vicious gouges in the pavement and Alno's shots hammered into another warrior, staggering but not killing it. Mack used her compact stub gun to deadly effect. One warrior's unprotected head was chewed apart by the flurry of comparatively small rounds – Mack pivoted to fire again and the staggered one's helmet dinged twice from a pair of headshots. The xeno dropped like a sack of potatoes.

On either side of the plaza, torrents of bolter fire erupted and tore into the confused groups of traitors and assorted Dark Eldar slaves that fled the buildings and into the night. Streeter's grenades thudded into the street, destroying equipment pallets and adding significantly to the volume of fire. The more professional troops were in cover behind the wreckage of their hateful tanks and crouched behind dull metal crates. Girard spied one of them screaming into a vox set, and aimed a pair of shots at the vox operator crouched beside him. The upper half of the operator was vaporized and the one holding the mouthpiece was sprayed with molten metal as one of Girard's shots missed and struck a nearby crate. Stern and Gideon's groups refocused their fire on the hiding traitors, now that they had killed everything in their respective sectors of fire.

A series of startled shouts and cries of pain exploded through the vox. Everyone at Girard's position winced, straining through the noise to see what was happening. Dark shapes had swept in from above, and the inferno below revealed their identities quickly. Large, powerful winged figures came streaking out of the night, and swept over the other Storm Troopers' positions. Girard could hear Veidt's strangled cries as one of the winged warriors grabbed a fistful of his uniform with one hand, massive dark matter weapon in the other, and hauled him bodily from the rooftop. He watch in dismay as Veidt sailed through the air, grasping outward before slamming into the cobblestones with a heavy crunch.

Before he could cry out as his comrade met his end, Alno spun round and fired a long burst of gunfire skyward. Two of the winged Dark Eldar were on a collision course with their position. A lucky shot form Alno knocked one off-balance, and instead of disemboweling him on its bayonet, it swerved and smashed into him clumsily, dragging him to the edge of the parapet before stopping. Another plummeted onto Mack, driving its heels into her shoulders and collapsing the weakened floor beneath her. In a plume of dust and splinters, they crashed through the roof and into the building beneath them.

Vald was not as fortunate. A hail of splinter rounds scythed down from above and punched through his armor. He was instantly thrown into convulsions, and toppled to the floor while his body seized and clenched from the vile poisons. Alno witnessed Vald's unceremonious demise beneath the flailing limbs of the Dark Eldar flyer that was trying its best to claw him to ribbons. Its limbs blurred with incredible speed as it ripped long furrows through his flak plates and painful gouges along his arms and thighs, but a powerful haymaker from Alno temporarily stunned it and they locked into a vicious grapple against the parapet.

One of the avian xenos landed on a nearby rooftop, aiming its elongated weapon at Girard. They were horrific creatures, spindly and hollow-boned, with bird-like wings grafted to their bodies by some arcane and debased form of xeno medical science. It regarded him for a moment with twitchy movements of its head, from behind a sweeping hawk-like mask. Girard rolled away as its weapon fired, and another dark lance shot whizzed past as he stopped behind a brick chimney. A series of bolter shots from Wulfhausen's weapon tore the xeno apart before it could adjust its aim.

"Kill these fiends and regroup on my position, quickly!" Girard shouted into the vox as he rose from cover, plasma rifle at the ready.

"We're on the way," Gideon and Stern said at once.

Wulfhausen had hurled himself on the xeno that had collided with Alno, who was busy repeatedly ramming his elbow into its neck. The xeno bucked the burly Storm Trooper off with a shriek of rage, aiming a clawed swipe at Alno's face. Girard fired again and struck the offending arm at the shoulder; the plasma shot speared through and continued on into the night sky without losing velocity. The Dark Eldar howled as its arm slapped to the rooftop, wisps of superheated air wafting from the wound. Alno bull rushed it to the ground, sweeping up a brick and smashing the hand it put up in protest. As its remaining limb crumbled under the assault, Alno pulped its head with a flurry of savage blows.

The smashing of masonry and muffled alien shrieks drifted up through the hole in the floor. The three men exchanged worried glances, raised their weapons and sprinted for the opening. Before they could drop through, the xeno came scrabbling up and out, wings fluttering awkwardly as it frantically sought escape. Suddenly, it stopped, and was pulled back down into the building. More crashes and toppling furniture followed, mixed with what could only be Mack screaming and spitting curses at her opponent. Then came the shattering of wood and glass; Girard glanced over the parapet as the xeno was catapulted through the lower window, impaled with rebar and missing both a wing and several fingers.

The rooftop battle ended with the wet crunch of the last Dark Eldar splattering on the plaza below. Stern and Gideon's groups arrived, weapons flitting back and forth in search of more targets, but finding none. Girard scanned the survivors.

"Where's Morrow?" He asked. Stern shook his head. Girard cursed under his breath, and said:

"Into the hole, we need to get inside before we're _all_ plucked from the rooftops. Watch for Mack before you jump," Girard said as he waved his men into the opening where Mack had fallen. After Streeter hopped down, he lowered himself into the room. Mack was busy wiping the flat of her blade on an old blanket she found in a nearby chest of drawers when he stood back upright. Vaguely beak-shaped dents and fist-sized holes in the walls were visible all around, and feathers were still drifting down from the ceiling. She cracked her neck side to side, and said:

"What now?" she panted, sheathing her knife and looking at Girard.

"Holy Throne, ma'am – I'm impressed," Gideon said, swatting a putrid xeno feather from in front of him. The other men exchanged astonished laughter upon witnessing the collateral damage of her duel.

"Strong as an Ogryn, hey?" Johannsen lifted one arm and flexed menacingly.

"And with a filthier mouth, too," Wulfhausen added. Girard waved frantically to shush his men, turned away and opened a vox channel to Invictus Actual.

"Invictus Actual, this is Invictus One. Fueling station is neutralized, and we have sustained light casualties. Awaiting further orders." Girard said with a grimace, feeling rotten inside as he just described the deaths of his men with such statistical nonchalance. The response was quick this time.

"Outstanding, Invictus One. Orders are to stand by and await relief by Verdant Prince." Pierce said.

"Sir, did something go wrong?" Girard blurted out, perplexed.

"Find a defensible position and wait for the Infantry to arrive and secure the area, Lieutenant. Stay vigilant for a counterattack. Until then, stand by." He said, in no mood for elaborate explanations.

"Affirmative, Invictus Actual. Invictus One, out." Girard said, and closed the vox.

][

Girard passed the word along to Delta Squad, and they formed a tight perimeter in the adjacent room, away from all the blood and feathers. They too seemed confused at the cryptic orders from their commander. The squad was quiet, shaken by Veidt and Morrow's death – they wanted to collect his body immediately, but to venture outside was to risk another attack from the winged Dark Eldar. Instead, they sat in silence, weapons trained on the window and every possible entry point. Out the windows of their building, a dim grey line could be seen on the horizon. Dawn would be breaking soon, and still the battle for Gantos raged unabated.

After a long wait in the darkness of their empty room, the shouts of massed soldiers and battle-hymns from vehicle-mounted vox units drifted through the buildings. Girard shifted up from his position of guarding the nearest staircase from intrusion, making his way through the silence to the 4th floor window, through which the xeno had made its fated journey. He called Stern over to him, and the two of them watched as professional, disciplined formations of guardsmen trickled through the alleys and side streets leading to the plaza. They moved smoothly, lasguns at the ready position as they scanned for additional targets. They fanned out across the space, platoon commanders directing their squads toward various buildings for sweep-and-clear maneuvers while others jabbed the bodies with bayonets and kept watch on the windows. Before the noise of the Rhinos and sentinel walkers could drown out his voice, Girard took a step back from the window and shouted the universal affirmation of the Imperial Guard:

"_The Emperor Protects!"_

It was a common saying with innumerable uses for as many social situations, but on the battlefield it was a suitable means of letting friendly units know of one's presence. It was also a good way to avoid being shot by a trigger-happy guardsman when emerging from cover. The guardsmen below were clearly not expecting such a proclamation from this scene of destruction and carnage, as only a handful of them echoed the phrase. Girard removed his helmet and clipped it to his side. He took a single step into the moonlit window, plasma gun pointed away and waved to the troops below. Their lasguns snapped up toward him, but a gruff platoon Sergeant elbowed through them, cursing and waving at them to lower their weapons.

"We're coming down, Sergeant – just making ourselves known," Girard said, smiling. Truth be told, he didn't announce his presence to protect himself from friendly fire; it was more a warning to the guardsmen to restrain themselves, and avoid a violent reprisal. Without turning around, he said:

"Mack, Stern, come with me."

The two of them rose and followed Girard down the stairs and out of the building to meet the approaching guardsmen. Girard led them around the sizzling remains of one of the wyches killed by a jet of flaming promethium as one of the fuel hoses ruptured. Her molten flesh was sloughing from her bones and fusing with the cobblestones as they passed, razor flail still clenched in her scorched hands. With the eyes of the squad on him, Girard observed the gruesome mess with well-feigned disinterest.

"Sergeant, where is your platoon commander? I need a word with him," He said. Stern and Mack stood to either side, staring expectantly.

"Of course, sir. Lieutenant 2nd Grade Slover is just over that way." The Sergeant said, pointing past his men and a small group of officers gathered near some crate stacks, beside the ruined monument. Girard nodded and made his way forward without a word, Mack and Stern in tow. As they crossed the plaza, the eyes of the guardsmen were veering toward the three of them – Girard could only imagine the speculation that rose after passing the Sanguinatus sites along their way.

"I'm looking for Lieutenant Slover," He said boldly as he approached the junior officers. They turned around, surprised to see the bloody and dirt smeared Storm Troopers approaching them. He sized them up in a moment – all recent officer academy graduates, from the look of it. They were brave and competent men without a doubt, but the air of inexperience was still impossible to miss. A young man, a few years Girard's junior, stepped away from a map they had laid out across a crate, fingers drumming on a lightly used las carbine.

"And who is asking?" He said.

"Lt. Burkhalter, Invictus One." He said. The other officers turned to watch the conversation unfold. Slover threaded his thumbs through the straps on his webbing, nodding appreciatively as a flash of recognition lit up his face.

"We've been hearing about you – I take it you're responsible for this?" He said, turning about and admiring the destruction caused by a single squad. The other junior officers eyed the shredded and sizzling Dark Eldar bodies and the gory wreck of the winged xeno, their apprehension clear on their faces. Girard followed his gaze with a mask of marked indifference. Frightening green junior officers like these was an endlessly entertaining venture for him.

"That's correct – if I could see your commander, there are some things I need to straighten out before we move on from here." Girard said, locking his gaze on the other Lieutenant.

"I'm afraid I'm the most senior man here now; Captain Krexus' Rhino was destroyed along with most of our vox equipment. What is it you need, Burkhalter was it?" He said sadly.

"I'm sorry to hear that. After we neutralized this site, we were to stand by until your men consolidated on the area – has your command been in contact with the 33rd, to your knowledge?" Girard asked, playing his cards close to his chest. The man thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know. We had no prior knowledge on this refueling station at all – let alone the tank squadron you destroyed. We've been tasked with clearing this quadrant of the tier before meeting up with the Super Heavies at the 3rd Tier gate. Would have been nice to frakkin' know about this place, eh?" He answered honestly, while giving away information on the larger battle. The man knew nothing of the larger plans at work, however. Girard scoffed openly at the lack of information the guardsmen had gotten prior to stepping off.

"Yes, well that's the way of things isn't it? At any rate, my men and I will be in that building across the way. I suggest you spread the word that we no longer have air superiority in the city." He pointed behind him at the building he and his squad emerged from, and then at the winged Dark Eldar lying in the plaza. The Lieutenant nodded, swallowing hard.

"A wise plan," He said. Girard nodded, turned and led Stern and Mack toward the far side of the plaza. He brushed past the gathered guardsmen, heading toward where Veidt had fallen.

"What are your plans now?" Slover said, watching them pass. Girard stopped, turned to him, and secured his plasma rifle to the carapace rigging on his chest to leave his hands free.

"Now? I'm going to collect my dead. If there's something _more_ pressing to discuss, however..." Girard said quietly, his voice nearly overwhelmed by the flickering flames and sporadic shouts of the other guardsmen. Slover was a sharp young man, and the menacing intent lurking behind Girard's impatient tone was enough of a hint. He took a step away from Girard and out of striking distance, just to be safe.

"Not at all, we won't be getting in your way," He said, holding his hands up to indicate his acquiescence. Girard turned and checked one junior officer roughly with his shoulder as he stalked off to retrieve Veidt's body.

"No, you certainly will not."


End file.
